The Cadet
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: S12:E14: Cadence. The 1986-1987 year at Remington Military Academy, telling the stories of Mark Golan, Anthony DiNozzo, Jr., and a mysterious, powerful secret society of cadets known as Honor Corps.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

 **A/N: This story began as a revision of my 2015 NCIS story "The Graduate". Based off some feedback I got from VG LittleBear in particular, I started to make a list of improvements to make. Then I realized the list was getting so long, and I was getting so many new ideas that I decided to write a feature-length story and leave "The Graduate" alone. That story was hastily written, containing various plotholes and inconsistencies. The preparation of this story and its first chapter took two years.**

 **I would also like to thank TheNaggingCube, DS2010, and Imill123 for their reviews of "The Graduate" back in 2015. Each one wrote some excellent, well-detailed feedback, and it is much appreciated.**

 **Some names and details are changed from "The Graduate", including Golan's background, the name of battalion commander St. Esprit (Alexander Rosh instead of Adam Ryan), and the name of the boy from Charleston, South Carolina. The original surname is that of an old Charleston family that still exists, so I decided to change the boy's surname to that of one of the Old Families of the Terran Confederacy in the PC game** _ **StarCraft**_ **.**

 **It is not specified in canon, to my knowledge, when Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. attended Remington Military Academy for his 12** **th** **grade year. But he was born in the late 1960s, 1969 I believe, and if he graduated high school when most do, it would have been in the 1986-1987 school year. Thus I chose to have the story start in 1986 and end in 1987.**

 **One of the most memorable pieces of feedback I got on "The Graduate" was that Mark Golan and his friends go through life and, in time, unto death living their code and its virtues. They do not make them likeable. And in my opinion, they do not much try. They believe their code of honor and their values are self-evident in their worth, and anyone who does not walk the path of honor is making a mistake that they- the Honor Corps- need to correct. They do not ever stop to consider whether they are making themselves approachable to those who do not live their way, or to fellow cadets to whom their strict and narrowly-defined code may be as alien as walking on the moon. It is the way they are.**

 **But this story is not just about Mark Golan and the secret cadet society he is a part of, Honor Corps, at Remington Military Academy of Tiverton, Rhode Island. It is just as much about the school and life there, and about our sarcastic and irreverent hero from NCIS, "Very Special Agent" Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. NCIS itself only briefly touched on what DiNozzo was like in high school and what kind of senior year he had at RMA in the 1980s. I have chosen to take on the task of depicting that myself. This is as much DiNozzo's story as anyone else's, and I hope to portray his 17-year-old self as accurately and fairly as Golan and his OC brothers in the Honor Corps.**

 **Many times, I will reference Pat Conroy and others who have written about The Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina. I'll make other references to other works, and to real life. I'll also refer to my own experiences as a cadet at a military high school. For what it is worth, I will say here and now that secret societies are not as prevalent at military institutions in the U.S. as fiction makes it think. They do not exist at any of the schools I have any personal knowledge of. It's just good drama.**

 **Conroy freely acknowledged that he had made up The Ten (a significant inspiration for my depiction of Honor Corps) and the rest of the main plot of** _ **The Lords of Discipline**_ **, his first novel, for dramatic purposes. I'm doing the same thing here. But writing this is closer to home for me than usual, and I can't possibly write this without thinking about when I was a cadet myself. I will do my best to keep things moving and balanced and not get hung up on old sentiments or resentments. I am also not going to make RMA a fictional copy of my school, or any other real-life military school.**

 **This is a work of fiction. That is important to remember, especially where an elite, powerful, and none-too-friendly secret society of cadets (a major part of this story, as it was in Pat Conroy's** _ **The Lords of Discipline**_ **) is concerned. Remember that this is just good drama, good storytelling. Military high schools and colleges are rarely depicted in fiction, and when they are, it is almost never in a positive light. I am not in any way trying to further the negative image this gives too many people about military schools.**

 **Again, please remember: this is a work of fiction.**

* * *

As cool as it was in Cass in the morning, it was hot as crap by the afternoon.

Any work you did out of doors on a day like this was going to be hard, a real challenge, and honest. Straightforward, with no bullshit or gray areas in between. That was just how Mark Golan liked it.

It was getting close to five in the afternoon, pretty much the hottest point in the day, and Mark was busy throwing coal into the Shay No. 6 locomotive's blazing furnace, keeping the fire blazing and the steam engine's boilers hot. It was hard work, just like coal mining, the job many of Mark's male ancestors had spent a long time doing. Working on a steam locomotive was much the same; the work was tough, paid little, and left you dirty and tired at the end of a long day.

Outside the black engine's cab, it was eighty-five in the shade. Inside- well, it didn't really matter. Mark didn't give a rat's ass. It was just hot as crap. He was sweating like a bastard in these coveralls, and he couldn't wait to get out of them. He wasn't done yet, though, not just yet.

"Hey, Mark," Tommy Davis, chief engineer and 10-year Cass Scenic Railroad State Park veteran, called out from where he stood at the controls.

"Yeah?" Mark half-yelled back, talking over the noise of the chuffing engine and the on-and-off squealing of brakes.

"What was that big fancy military school you're goin' back to this year?"

Mark gave a shrug of his muscular shoulders and sighed. He reached up with a rag to try to wipe some of the grime off his forehead and mostly succeeded in smearing it around. "I know I told you, Tommy," he replied.

"I keep forgettin' the name, you know I forget the names of some of them big fancy schools up North."

"It's Remington Military Acad-"

The steam whistle blast cut him off. It drowned out Mark's voice, and as a matter of fact, it drowned out pretty much the whole rest of the world from where Mark stood in the cab. Mark looked up at Tommy and saw him and the other engineer, another old timer and mountaineer called Jim Smith, grinning at the young man in front of them. They hadn't needed to pull the whistle that time. This was on purpose. Mark's short temper flared up and he started shoveling coal while telling them off, yelling and protesting and just really letting them have it. Tommy didn't lay off the whistle until Mark gave it up.

"So what was the name of that school?" the old railroader asked, as soon as Mark could hear again.

"I said-"

And the whistle went off again. And Mark yelled again. And the whistle drowned his words out just like before.

Mark talked, thought, moved and reacted fast. He had no tolerance for bullshit or anyone wasting his time. A fighter to the core, he seized any problem he encountered, any situation, and did not let go until he'd won. Thanks to that drive, there were very few who could rival him academically, militarily, socially, or athletically at the Remington Military Academy, and those few who could were largely Mark's friends.

Being so driven and focused could make you rather humorless at times, something Mark was not immune to. So, naturally, his friends all poked fun at him for it, and the men on the railroad here at the state park in Cass were no exception. These two old boys knew Mark hated it when anyone interrupted him, so they would deliberately ask him questions while they were on a run, and fire off the locomotive's steam whistle right as he tried to respond.

"Hey, Mark," Jim asked when the whistle stopped again, "I heard you was thinkin' of becomin' a Democrat."

Mark's impolite response was lost amidst a third blast from the whistle. The two old boys driving Shay No. 6 were laughing so bad they were leaning against the left and right sides of the cab. The blond teenager tried to act fierce and be angry with them, but he liked them and it showed, so he didn't do a very convincing job of it. The two old engineers went on laughing, enjoying their joke.

Even though he'd been working on the railroad here in the park since he was fourteen, and had been riding the trains and talking to the crews well before that, Mark was the young pup and he got made fun of all the time because of it. The guys driving the trains and doing all the other jobs around the train shops and the railroad here in town all knew Mark and liked him, which was why teasing him was such a popular thing to do. To be fair, they played games with each other all the time as well.

Mark had helped Jim prank Tommy last week, and now the two of them were teaming up on Mark. And yesterday all three had set off a firecracker behind Robbie Smith, Jim's brother and a law enforcement ranger here in town, and generally scared the crap out of him. A lot of this they had to do near the shops, when the train wasn't full of tourists. It was too bad, because tourists were the best prank target of all, and hundreds of them visited Cass every year. But they were off limits. Mom would have killed anybody among the park's staff if she found out they were messing with the tourists, and that included Mark himself.

It was hard for Mark to believe this was gonna be his last full summer working here at the park. Last one for a long time, anyway. After this year, if all went well- and Mark absolutely knew it would- he would be attending the United States Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs, Colorado, and during each of the four years he'd be there, Mark would have summer training to do. He and the other nine boys coming to town to see him today had all made a pact: all of them would earn their airborne and air assault wings while in college, no matter what school they went to or what branch of ROTC they chose.

All in all, it didn't look like Mark would be spending a lot of time at Cass for a while yet. There was too much to do, too many places to go. Mark had been trying to avoid thinking about that. He didn't like the idea of leaving this town. It had been nice getting to know it, getting to have an anchor in the world even as he grew up on a succession of military bases, constantly moving as Dad's career in the Air Force had demanded.

Cass had been home even before he'd moved here. Mom and Dad had brought him here every chance they could. Mark had never forgotten the wholesome simplicity of life here, the honesty and good cheer of the handful of full-time Cass residents and of the state park employees. There was stability here, a sense of permanence- not something Mark had known well as he'd moved from one Air Force base to another.

The Shay pulled to a stop at the water tower, and Mark scrambled atop the cab to make sure the water pipe was positioned right to pour into the locomotive's tank. He stayed there for a few minutes while the thirsty, 100-ton beast drank its fill, then got back inside as the train backed into the station at Cass. The engine huffed and puffed, spewing black smoke into the air, and- unfortunately- raining cinders and bits of leftover coal down on the roofed but windowless cars.

The tour guide was no doubt reminding everyone to keep their heads inside the cars over the speakers right about now; people tended to forget about that as the train returned to the station. This was the end of the long run up to Bald Knob, too, an hours-long trip to the third-highest point in West Virginia. Some folks were eager to start getting up and sticking their damn fool heads out of the cars, anything to be moving around after so much time on those stiff wooden benches.

As the enormous locomotive, biggest in the whole stable here at Cass, braked gently to a stop, Tommy held out a hand. "Gonna be real sorry to lose you after today, Mark," he said.

"Thank you," Mark said solemnly, putting his filthy hand in the other man's. "I've loved this damn job. Everyone should work a summer like this."

"Makes a man outta ya, don't it?" Jim asked.

"Sure does," Tommy answered. "Just look at Mark here. The Air Force better watch out, they don't know what they're gettin' themselves into."

Mark laughed and shook hands with Jim, then nodded to them and hopped down from the cab. After punching out in the office and doing a little end-of-the-day paperwork, it was done. Mark's four-year tour with the railroad here at Cass was over.

 _It's okay_ , Mark thought. _Finish one thing and start another. Don't look back. Keep moving forward_.

 **XX**

Mark knew just the vehicle he was looking for, and just the guys, and he spotted both quickly out in the parking lot. There was a new-model Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser wagon, blue inside and out with vinyl wood paneling running along the sides, that had a handful of athletic-looking, handsome Caucasian boys hanging around near it. Every single one of them was in excellent shape for their or any age. Every single one wore a yellow gold Remington Military Academy, Class of 1987 ring on his right hand. And even though they were dressed in various civilian t-shirts and shorts, they all had strict regulation buzz-cuts and clean-shaven faces. People sometimes mistook them for soldiers already, noticing their regulation grooming and military bearing.

The tallest boy in the group, Alexander Rosh St. Esprit, IV, was the king of the Brotherhood of Arrogant Bastards for good reason. The son of a three-star general and Medal of Honor recipient who was currently Superintendent of the United States Military Academy at West Point, St. Esprit hailed from a long line of soldiers and had always believed it was his destiny to follow in their footsteps. Clumsy as his name was, St. Esprit was already being hailed as a military prodigy; his brilliance and charisma had prompted his fellow cadets to nickname him "Alexander the Great", a nickname he loved. His blond hair shone in the afternoon sun as he leaned against the side of the wagon, a pair of sunglasses concealing his eyes.

Right now, St. Esprit was listening to a joke being to him by the sophisticated and oddly-named Henry Arnoldus Moultrie D'Arbanville. The only child and heir to one of the biggest fortunes and most historic names in South Carolina, the silvery-blond, pale-faced youth was Old South royalty. He was intelligent, athletic, well-spoken, and deeply devoted to traditions and a way of life most now thought were history. Someone had once remarked he could have played Ashley Wilkes without needing to memorize any lines, prompting his closest friends to occasionally call him "Wilkes" or "Ashley".

Christian Scott Marshall, son of the division sergeant major in the 2nd Marine Division at Camp Lejeune, was the most easygoing of the group, and one of only a few who didn't come from old money, or a distinguished military family. He and his brother, a captain in the Marines, were extremely close, and got along well with everybody in this little group. Like the others, he was a natural athlete. All of the guys were ladies' men, but Chris was in a league of his own. Behind his Boy Scout exterior he was the horniest guy Mark had ever heard of.

David Jason Cadez of St. Augustine, Florida was leaning against the Oldsmobile wagon, reaching into his pocket and assuring himself the pack of cigarettes he always liked to keep in his jeans was close at hand. His father was a brigadier general in the Marine Reserves, running a dress clothes and tailoring business, he had founded after twenty-five years on active duty. Cadez had dark hair and one of the shortest haircuts at school, even within this group. In the fall he played varsity football, and in the spring, he was an enthusiastic hockey player. In either case, Cadez could take it and dish it out quite well, spoke Spanish and English with equal fluency, and was a superb surfer.

Pierce Thomas Chandler, V, from Huntsville, Alabama was the son of real estate magnate who'd been highly decorated during his time with the 82nd Airborne in Vietnam. His family had featured prominently in Alabama's role as a Confederate state, like D'Arbanville, and like that other boy, Chandler was blond, handsome, well-spoken and deeply traditionally Southern. He was also a broad-shouldered, highly-enthusiastic football player and wrestler, so anyone who disliked his views tended to keep a respectful distance.

Charles James Edwin, III, from Providence, was the only Rhode Island native within this group. Like the others in this bunch, he kept his dark-brown hair well within Academy regulations, relaxed still from the harder times of the 1970's, required him to. Edwin was also a kind of long-lost brother to Marshall, sharing his exuberant nature and his irrepressible sense of humor. Many pranks whose culprits had never been discovered were the result of Edwin & Marshall's handiwork.

Matthew David Park, Jr., was sitting behind the wheel of the Olds wagon, dozing behind his pair of stylish sunglasses. Hailing from none other than New York City, he kept insisting that Park Avenue was named after his family, toward which his friends in this little club maintained a certain skepticism. He owned a black Ferrari Testarossa and didn't mind saying so. After RMA, he planned to follow his father to Cornell, and keep chasing his dream to compete for the United States in the Olympic Games as a swimmer.

Then you had Joseph William Carroll, Jr., and Tanner Mark Heisler, the auburn-haired boys from Chicago who were meant to be twin brothers but by some injustice had been handed different faces and different parents. They spent most of their time playing football and messing with people. They weren't stupid, though, as evidenced by their numerous victories as leading members of Remington's Speech & Debate Club. Carroll and Heisler were dependable friends and never hesitated if it was time to get something done.

"Hey, General," Mark called out to St. Esprit, "you gonna just park that rustbucket Olds on my Mom's nice parking lot?"

St. Esprit turned to look at the blond athlete approaching him. "Yeah, about that, I talked to one of the rangers and he said this suspicious-looking red truck was parked in the park director's driveway. Said he was gonna have it towed."

Mark went right up to St. Esprit and stared up into his face. "The way you strut around the campus up there in Tiverton, hotshot, it's like you're the next Douglas MacArthur."

"If your mouth was as quick as your brain, hot shit, you'd be a fuckin' cadet general by now."

"Damn, it's good to see you, Alex."

"Whaddya mean? I didn't miss you for a minute, Mark!"

The two boys grinned and hugged each other at the same time, and in moments all the other members of the clandestine brotherhood within the Class of 1987 were gathered around Mark, shaking hands, hugging him, and otherwise saying hello.

Well, except for two boys.

D'Arbanville held back, wrinkling his nose. "Ugh, you smell like a coal mine, Golan. So sweaty and uncultured."

"I got your culture, Darby, right here," Mark said, and he embraced the scion of one of Charleston's oldest and noblest families, getting sweat, grime and coal dust on the other teenager's immaculate jeans and white t-shirt. Before Mark got to him, D'Arbanville looked like he'd walked off some fashion magazine's cover. Once he did, not so much.

"Leggo!" D'Arbanville protested. "These- these are new clothes! Come on!"

"Take it easy, man," Mark said, stepping back and rubbing a dirty hand in D'Arbanville's hair, setting off a new round of protests. "You're in West Virginia now. There's no royals here, just people."

"God, isn't it wonderful?" D'Arbanville burst out. "I get to come up here and actually be a human being for once. No debutante balls or big society functions, no dinners where I have to listen to some judge or senator drone on about budget proposals or rulings in the state supreme court. And Father's running for Governor, so it's only going to get worse."

"Poor little rich boy," Marshall said, shaking his head, unable to keep a smirk off his face. "Had to settle for an Oldsmobile to ride up here, too, and not his own Rolls-Royce car."

"I'll throw you in that river, Marshall," D'Arbanville threatened.

"Oh, what, not gonna have your butler do it for you?"

"He would if he was here, and I told him to."

"But he isn't here. Oh, looks like you gotta do something yourself!"

"I just told you I would."

"Gentlemen," St. Esprit broke in, "Golan's been shoveling coal in the heat all day."

"I'm sorry," D'Arbanville said at once, his customary drawl fully in place. "I had no intention of comin' up here and offendin' you, West Virginia boy."

"The sincerity," Park laughed. "I can feel it."

"Damn good to see you guys," Mark said, looking around. "Come on. Drive yourselves up to the house and let's help Mom get dinner ready."

 **XX**

The two big cars really filled up the driveway, added in with one big car and a truck already present. The ten boys filled up the house even more, though. It wasn't even the fact that all of them were enthusiastic, incurable jocks. Their forceful, energetic personalities were what really took up space. They were as intimate and as fiercely competitive as a pack of wolves, constantly testing themselves against one another in battles of wits, strength and skill, yet ready to unite in an instant. Mark went to shower and change into a plain white t-shirt and pair of jeans while his friends got everything ready.

As they prepared, the ten boys amused themselves by playing all kinds of grab-ass games, messing around, laughing their asses off. When Laura Golan walked into the house, though, they got it together in an instant. Mark's mother was almost six feet tall, and ran her home and park with a firm but fair hand. The ten muscular, brush-cut teenagers greeted her with such a flurry of "Hello, ma'am," and "Yes, ma'am" that she soon dropped the stern, almost imperious persona she frequently maintained at work. Laura Golan laughed, and said, "Okay, boys, you've made your point."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sure hope we have, ma'am."

"Anything to help, ma'am."

And so on.

Laura Golan took off her plain work boots and looked at her only son fondly, shaking her head. "Did you put them up to this?"

Mark looked back at her with an innocent expression. "I didn't do anything like that, Mom. I also didn't tell them to get the silverware and plates out and get some pots ready so we can have some of your famous spaghetti for dinner. Ma'am."

"So my son _was_ behind all this?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"He was, ma'am."

"All his idea, Mrs. Golan, ma'am."

Laura Golan laughed. "Okay, you've done plenty to get things set up, boys. Take your seats and I'll get the pasta and the sauce going. And boys- better thank Mark for also having nothing to do with the kitchen being so well-stocked on pasta shells, noodles and on sauce. He made a drive to White Sulphur Springs and back the other day so you all wouldn't eat us out of house and home."

"Aw, well wasn't that nice of you!" D'Arbanville drawled, deliberately exaggerating his accent.

The other eight boys all crowded around Mark, playfully slapping at his close-shaven head and poking and prodding him, all the while enthusiastically thanking him. They proceeded to needle and tease one another mercilessly during dinner- or at least tried to. The generous portions of delicious spaghetti and sauce began to slow them down, and after they'd all had a plate or two, the ten-man brotherhood was vastly more subdued, sitting around with their hands on their stomachs and goofy, dazed smiles on their faces.

Yet when Laura Golan asked if anyone wanted ice cream, they all sat up and clamored for it like a bunch of little kids. When it was time to clean up, each one hurried to do his share and then some. There was no dishwasher in the house, so they worked as a team to get the dishes done. Like anything they did as a team, they did it superbly and in astoundingly little time.

"Okay," Mark announced, when he saw the cleanup was all done, "who wants to go up the mountain?"

Nine enthusiastic voices answered him.

"Mark," Laura Golan said, "I want you guys back by ten. Just because there'll be no tourists up at Whittaker Station or Bald Knob doesn't mean you can hang out there all night."

"Yes, ma'am," Mark said obediently.

"And while you're up there, pick up any trash you see. It'll save the maintenance rangers some trouble tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mark headed for the door, pulled his shoes back on, and headed for his Chevrolet truck with the best friends he'd ever known. The ground was still soft from yesterday's heavy rain, and though some of the heat of the day remained, it was fading into a pleasantly temperate evening.

The blond adolescent pulled open the driver's door of the fire-engine red truck, decked out in chrome like something from the 1950s, and got inside. Silverado, best of the C/K trim lines. In Mark's opinion, best of any pickup trucks made by anyone, anywhere.

"Move it over, Marshall," St. Esprit said, shoving the red-haired teen to the middle of the bench seat.

"Go jump in the Greenbrier River, Alexander the Great," Marshall shot back.

"Hot as it's been today, that doesn't sound so bad."

"Then go do it in full dress uniform."

Mark got his keys out and glanced at them. There were two that had the emblem of General Motors on them; one went to the truck's doors, the other to the ignition. Mark stuck the correct one into the ignition slot, gave it a moment, and pushed it forward. The Detroit Diesel engine kicked over and started growling, making a pretty decent racket at idle for a truck that was still almost new.

There was some thudding as the boys riding in the back began pushing and shoving. Mark reached for the sliding piece of glass in the back of the cab and shoved it aside. "Hey! You guys wanna walk to the top of the mountain, that's fine with me!"

"Listen," D'Arbanville protested, "how come I have to sit back here? This is so low and common. Me, riding in the back of some truck? Next thing I'll have to go to school with ni-"

"You _do_ have to go to school with niggers, D'Arbanville," Marshall reminded him.

The boys in the truck bed all laughed. "I ain't believing Marshall just said 'niggers'," Chandler laughed.

"Christ, will you people keep your voices down?" Mark hissed. "This is 1985, not fucking 1955."

"Shame," Chandler commented.

"Aw, who cares," D'Arbanville said dismissively. "People can scream about equality all they want. It ain't gonna make any of those people as good as any of us."

"You're a racist, Darby," Edwin told him.

"So what?"

Mark shook his head and gripped the gearshift lever, fixed to the right side of the steering column. The truck's menacing growl dropped a note as it shifted into reverse, and Mark backed it out of the driveway. He drove downhill past the jail and mayor's office on the right, and the park office and town store on the left. Crossing over the railroad tracks, Mark drove the K20 Silverado onto the gravel road that led to the shops the locomotives were serviced in, giving a casual wave to the handful of park employees he passed along the way.

The back roads that led up toward Whittaker Station and Bald Knob were tough to drive even on a dry day. They had so few signs and so many turns and sharp curves and steep grades, it was easy to get lost. The gravel quickly gave way to dirt, and in some instances mud. Mark worked the truck up each grade and around each corner, thankful many times that this was a four-wheel-drive truck. Out here, it made little sense to own any other kind.

Riding in the cab got a little rough here and there, and at one point St. Esprit and Marshall yelped as their heads knocked together. The truck's rocking side-to-side had the seven teenagers in the back tumbling around, and there were some disparaging comments about Mark's driving ability and questions about where he had obtained his driver's license.

The drive smoothened out as he drove past a hillside horse pasture, with a spectacular view of the mountains as the sun continued to set. The guys all quieted down, captivated by the sight. Mark slowed as he passed that point and any others that looked especially good. Even after years living out here, he had never gotten bored of those wide-open views of West Virginia and its mountains.

 **XX**

After a childhood spent moving from one Air Force base to another, having no real permanent place to call home, getting to call a place this beautiful home was really something. It was hard to compare it to anyplace else. To Mark, Cass held more appeal than all the glamour of New York City. The only thing he loved more than viewing these mountains from the ground was seeing them from the air.

The air…

Mark hadn't flown in over a month. His plane, the one his grandfather had given to Mark even before he could fly, was grounded while Granddad worked on it, and Mark was too busy working on the rails to have time to visit neighboring Greenbrier County often anyway. But now, with his working obligations over…

"You'll be up there first thing tomorrow, fighter pilot," St. Esprit said, looking over at Mark. "It's just a few more hours."

"Going without flight is worse than going without sex," Mark declared. "You can't keep me on the ground, man. You just can't. It's not right."

"Tomorrow," Marshall said. "Just wait till tomorrow. Until then, keep your eyes on the dirt roads so we don't fall off a mountain and die screaming like little girls."

The guys all cracked up at that one, and Mark had to stop the truck for a minute. "Goddamn it, Marshall, you and your friggin' jokes," he said, shaking his head.

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," St. Esprit admonished him.

"Sorry," Mark said contritely.

"Goddamn right you're sorry!"

Mark looked at his friend, rival and classmate in disbelief. "What was that?"

"I said _fuck you_ , Golan!"

"See that, guys?" Mark said, speaking to the other boys as the Chevy growled and grunted its way up the twin ruts dug by the passage of various work trucks over… who knew how many years. "Son of a fuckin' twenty-star general and war hero gets all of you together, drives up here, gets me driving my own damn truck up the side of a damn mountain, all so he can tell me 'fuck you'! Can you _believe_ that?"

"From the Great? You bet I would," Marshall replied, not missing a beat.

"Listen, Air Force," St. Esprit said, "you just drive the damn truck and let the Army do the thinking."

"Would the Marine Corps be willing to do the Air Force a solid and throw the Army outta my truck if he doesn't stop mouthing off?"

"With pleasure," Marshall said, grinning.

"Never thought I'd see the flyboys team up with the fucking jarheads," St. Esprit grouched.

"That's it," Mark said pleasantly. "Mr. Marshall, please show the Holy Spirit the way out of the cab."

St. Esprit and Marshall immediately began wrestling over access to the door handle, and Marshall narrowly managed to win it just as Mark pulled up on one of the wide, grassy fields beside the tracks at Whittaker Station. After a fifteen-minute, exceedingly thorough policing of the area, the boys piled back into the Chevrolet and Mark made the rest of the drive.

They arrived at Bald Knob, the farthest trip possible on one of Cass's trains, as the amber sun was beginning to set. Mark drove as close as he dared to the wild shrubs covering the edge, shifted into park, and turned off the truck. As the diesel growled down into silence, Mark opened the driver's door, not even bothering to take the keys. He normally didn't even in town. This wasn't New York City, or Boston. It was Cass, Mark's reward for a childhood of getting dragged from one Air Force Base to the next.

Mark had finally gotten to be the West Virginian his parents had always wanted. Like he'd always wanted. For generations, both sides of his family had called it home. Mark loved it here. Wordlessly, he got up on the warm hood of the truck and leaned against the windshield, his superb vision allowing his eyes peer out across miles of the Appalachian Mountains.

Marshall climbed into the bed as St. Esprit, that magnificent, arrogant bastard, sat down on the hood beside Mark. The red-haired boy called out, "So who wants a beer?"

Instantly, all the guys milling about, picking places to sit, turned his way, stunned. Marshall just grinned at them. "What, did you think I was kidding about that? Brought it up in my bag, hid it in the ice cooler around the back of Golan's house and stuck it in his truck's big, shiny toolbox before we left."

"Marshall," Mark said, "you are a goddamn marvel."

"First Sergeant's just looking out for his guys," Marshall said, as the other boys all laid on compliments of their own. He handed out the beers, even pulling the caps off as he did so. Then they all stretched out in different spots around the truck and waited for the stars to come out.

"That's a hell of a view," Park said.

"Don't see that in the city," Carroll added.

"If looks were money, noplace'd be richer than West Virginia," Mark said.

"I gotta say," St. Esprit said, "my exec sure knows how to pick 'em."

"Listen, we were both majors last year. What makes you think you're gonna beat me to the three diamonds this time?"

"Well, once OCS starts we'll just see. Won't we?"

"And may the best man win," Mark agreed.

"Guys," Cadez said, "we're the best out of five hundred guys going to Remington this fall. We got picked out of all those other guys. Every one of us is the fucking best."

"That's right," Heisler said enthusiastically. "There's nobody better than us."

"Every one of us could uphold the standards and traditions of Remington all by ourselves," St. Esprit said, in a voice that would brook no argument. It was the voice of the great leader he was already becoming, containing hints of the even greater leader he wanted to be. "Every one of us could walk into the barracks and start kicking ass and taking names. We were chosen to do that as a team, and we're part of a brotherhood, the best graduates our school has ever produced. I'm loving summer break, guys, but at the same time, I can't wait to get back to school this fall."

"Spoken like a Commandant," Carroll said admiringly.

"We're athletes, cadets, and soldiers," Mark, the Master-at-Arms, said. "We're fucking good at every one of those things. The guys in the Class of '86 picked us to be next year's Honor Corps. I just feel sorry for anyone who crosses us."

"To bad they'll never know our names," D'Arbanville, the Secretary, drawled.

"They'll know better than to fuck with the Honor Corps," Marshall said. "We're here for when the rest of the system fails. The buck stops with us."

"Nobody'll know we're the ten guys the last ten picked," St. Esprit acknowledged. "But you men remember this: we're the finest in our class. They'll know us for that as individuals. And as for the Corps- the people who deserve to know, will know."

"To the Corps," Mark said, raising his beer.

"To honor," St. Esprit responded.

"To South Carolina," D'Arbanville drawled, and they all chuckled.

"To this," Marshall said, gazing out at the mountains from the third highest point in West Virginia.

The small band of teenage boys drank their beers and watched the sun set, feeling like the kings of all creation. They were immensely proud of all their achievements so far, of having done so much at such an early age. At everything they did, these boys excelled like there was no alternative- and to them, there wasn't. All of them would soon return to Remington Military Academy for their fourth year, and for some, their sixth. Academically, athletically, and militarily, they were each the highest-ranked cadets in their class. Every one of them was a volunteer; every one of them was at RMA by choice.

At the forefront of their ranks was Alexander the Great.

For as long as Mark had known him, Alexander R. St. Esprit, IV had labored under the weight of his father's name. He had memorized his father's battles and campaigns, his medals and ribbons and the story behind each one. He had spent his childhood growing up in the shadow of a military giant. Arrogant and pushy and self-obsessed as he was, Mark knew the fear and sense of inadequacy that Alex struggled with, the feeling that he could never live up to his father's achievements. The worry that he might never step out of his father's shadow and be allowed to have a life and career of his own.

Mark, the tough-as-nails descendant of generations of coal miners and citizen-soldiers who took no crap from any living man, made an interesting friend for him. All his life Mark had wanted to fly. The Air Force had been the only thing he had ever wanted to do. His father and mother had worked to make Mark love the ancestral home, West Virginia, and love it Mark did, but ever since he'd been a small boy he had walked the earth with his eyes pointed skyward. And so they were now, as he scanned the sky and talked with his friends and thought about flight, and all the planes he had flown, and the indescribable joy of flight, and the endless freedom of the sky.

 **XX**

After a six-mile run the next morning, they all got in the Custom Cruiser and drove to the airport in Greenbrier County. There, Mark returned to his first love, the Zero. When Mark saw the A6M5, he felt his heart skip a beat and then double its speed. Decorated in the dark OD green and white-and-blue roundels of the Republic of China Air Force, she sat poised on the ground with her nose tilted skyward, her glass canopy slid back, waiting for a pilot. Waiting to fly.

In the hangar with her were a Piper Twin Comanche, marked as a plane of the West Virginia Wing of the Civil Air Patrol, and an A-24 Banshee dive bomber, the OD green dive bomber most historians knew as the SBD Dauntless. Mark's paternal grandfather, Charlie Golan, had manned an antiaircraft gun at Hickam on December 7, 1941, and then flown an A-24 at Midway in June of 1942. He'd flown a series of missions with the Royal Australian Air Force, and moved on to fly the P-40 Warhawk, and remained a fighter pilot for the rest of the war. Then in 1946 he began an exchange tour with the Republic of China Air Force, helping salvage captured Mitsubishi Zero fighters and teach Nationalist Chinese pilots to fly them against the Red Chinese.

That fight had been lost in the end. The Communists had overrun mainland China, and only the island of Taiwan and a few smaller ones nearby remained in the Republic's hands. Charlie Golan had mourned the loss of that country to Communism, and the same for Vietnam when that nation had finally fallen in 1975.

But Charlie Golan had not spent any time moping about how things should have been. He came back to the United States, married Mark's grandmother, transferred to the Air Force Reserve and joined the Civil Air Patrol and the local volunteer fire department. He visited Pocahontas County and Greenbrier County schools as a guest speaker, and encouraged people to vote and get involved in the community. He and his wife Betty were immensely respected people in this part of West Virginia. They had lived and continued to live amazing lives, and Mark felt privileged to know them.

Mark started grinning like a little kid as he and his friends pushed open the hangar doors, and he caught sight of his grandfather, already there, mechanic's coveralls on, oiling up the Zero. He was a handsome man, even in old age, and he continued to perform much of the service done on his own planes and cars. He liked driving here from his home in White Sulphur Springs in the copper-and-silver 1957 Chevrolet Nomad he had parked outside, as sure a sign as any that he was here at the airfield.

"Hey, Granddad," Mark said, giving his grandfather a hug.

"Well, hey there, Mark," Charlie Golan said, moved, as he always was, by the presence of his grandson, the soldier-boy and flier. He flashed one of his brilliant, charming smiles that seemed able to light up a room- or a hangar. "I see you brought some friends."

"They were hoping they could get a ride in the Banshee or the Twin today," Mark said, smiling back.

"If they behave themselves," Mark's grandfather said with a wink, "maybe the Golan boys will indulge 'em."

"Maybe we will, Granddad," Mark said, grinning.

Charlie Golan patted the lightly-armed, sleek side of the A6M5's fuselage. "I had a feeling there was someone else you wanted to say hello, first. Just got an engine overhaul done and I think she was waiting to get back into the air."

"If she wants to fly, Granddad," Mark said, his eyes already turning toward the beautiful, slender plane, "I think we should let her."

Mark's friends just stood politely by, watching all this. They were old faces at this airfield, at this hangar. They knew what this all meant to Mark. They would've had to have been blind and stupid besides not to.

"Well, don't just stand there, zip up in your flight suit," the 67-year-old pilot and former park ranger, forest marshal, and volunteer fireman said, and Mark hurried off to the small storage room to get changed. Then he looked at the other nine boys, each one sporting broad shoulders and buzz-cuts like his grandson, and said, "You boys want to take a ride up today?"

They all grinned. "Yes, sir," they said as one.

"Then let's get this Zero rolled out. Mark's not gonna wait very long."

 **XX**

The original engine of the A6M5 was still mounted; it was kept running through the same extraordinary resourcefulness that had let Granddad return from the other side of the world with the plane it was powering. There were few aircraft like it anywhere in the world. With Nationalist China defeated and increasingly forgotten- known to most only as Taiwan- it was surely the last of the ROCAF Zeroes, those strange and beautiful planes that were made by Japan and used by Chinese to fight other Chinese.

Mark completed the pre-flight checks and made sure none of his damn fool classmates were standing near the white-painted, three-bladed propeller. He glanced through the cockpit's gun-sights, still perfectly calibrated even though no ammunition had been loaded in the guns or cannon for years. Then the blond teenager went to start the engine, and it kicked over immediately, a lighter, more buzzing sound than the Banshee's deeper, more heavy-duty growl.

Once he was cleared, Mark taxied out to the runway and halted, revving up the engine. Almost as an afterthought, he reached up and slid the cockpit glass shut. Then clearance came over the radio to begin takeoff. Mark radioed his sincerest thanks, and opened up the throttle with his left hand. The sound of the Zero's motor quickly swelled to a roar, and the indicated airspeed climbed swiftly. The nose dropped as the Zero raced down the runway, and soon the wheels of its landing gear left the ground as its wings generated enough lift to take off.

By sacrificing armor and a better ammunition capacity for maneuverability and speed, the aircraft engineers of Mitsubishi had crafted for their Emperor one of the swiftest and most graceful fighters ever made. Mark adored the Spitfires and Mustangs he had seen at air shows, which he had even from time to time gotten to sit in, then fly. He loved the F6F Hellcat, that big, fat American fighter that could match the Zero turn for turn and did so with heavier armor and bigger guns. But the Zero was the one he had loved from the moment he saw it at not even six years old. It was the one Mark had never been able to keep his hands or eyes off of. It was the one he found truly irresistible, ahead of all the others.

The Zero! What a name for a plane. During the war the United States had named it the Zeke, but in the end, they'd called it by its real name, too. Mark would have loved it if they'd called it the Stink Bug or the Big Ugly Fat Fucker, the Mudhen or the Hog. Such a plane, shaped as if a poet had been asked to describe it first and the engineers had simply gone with his ideas, would have been as thrilling to fly by any other name. Once he'd climbed to over a thousand feet, Mark banked the Zero, turning to do a fly-over of the airfield.

The A6M5 responded instantly- just a flick of the wrist and she was gone! Mark forgot about the friends he had watching from the ground, forgot about school and the Air Force Academy application and everything else, and just flew.

Mark stood the Zero on her tail, slid off into swooping turns and dives, grinning with delight as he thought yet again that no roller-coaster in the world could be anything like this. It was a feeling you couldn't describe unless the other person had experienced it, too. Blue sky above and green earth below, the nimble Zero's stick in his hand, Mark Golan was drunk with the air again.

* * *

 **A/N: 6-2-2017. I did it. I finally did it. Chapter 1 of "The Cadet" has at long last been written. This chapter serves as an introduction; it is meant to give us a basic acquaintance, and hopefully better than a basic one, with Mark Golan and the other members of the brotherhood he has joined at the Remington Military Academy. I set the very beginning of the story in the summer of 1986 rather than the fall when Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. arrives there, because I wanted readers to see the boys of Honor Corps as friends, fraternal brothers, and above all as human beings, before you see them in uniform and at work. The human element will be there then, too, but here, without all the trappings of the military academy and their big ambitions in life to get in the way, you can see these guys as people.**

 **Mark Golan is the only character in this group that is canon, the only one that is actually named. Cadez *technically* is. I read his name off of the nametag of one of the other Honor Corps boys who confronts DiNozzo in the basketball gym in S12E14. It was Cadez or something similar. All of Mark's characteristics- apart from a hard-driving, relentless personality, a single-minded sense of purpose- are made up by me. Golan appears so briefly in "Cadence" that we get no information on who he is, where he is from, or why he is such a hard-nosed individual as a cadet. I came up with my own explanation. He comes from a military background, has a short temper and takes his problems, any problems, head-on. Mark Golan in my depiction is a fighter. He can be a nice guy, as we see here. But he is almost tailor-made to dislike the irreverent, sarcastic Anthony DiNozzo, Jr.**

 **Mudhen, BUFF, Stinkbug, and Hog are all nicknames for the F-15 Eagle, B-52 Stratofortress, F-117 Nighthawk, and A-10 Thunderbolt.**

 **Some of Mark Golan's thoughts and POV on the Zero and what it is like to fly are based off of quotes from the real-life Zero pilot, Saburo Sakai. Mark Golan's infatuation with the Mitsubishi Zero- despite it being an aircraft his own grandfather flew against during World War II- is based off of my own, though I am no pilot myself. The Zero remains one of the most beautiful aircraft I have seen, and it comes from a time when beauty seemed the rule for Japanese aircraft, all of which were designed under a philosophy emphasizing speed and maneuverability over all other virtues.**

 **UPDATE:**

 **-11-23-2018: Changed D'Arbanville's first name from Ryan to Henry, did some editing that included restoring the original opening scene to the chapter, at the request of VG LittleBear.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

 **A/N: Tony's first day at RMA. November 10, 1986. Monday. I picked the year and everything myself, since what I could find in NCIS canon didn't get real specific about what year Tony was in 12** **th** **grade.**

* * *

Reveille blared from the speakers set up all over the campus at Remington Military Academy, and in the Hull House barracks, in the room he'd moved into only just last night, Anthony DiNozzo, Jr., opened his eyes, then immediately shut them again and groaned.

 _Oh, no, not this shit again_.

He had hoped to get shipped to some nice fancy prep school when he got booted out of Bunker Hill Military Academy down in Pennsylvania after just six weeks there this fall. And he'd lasted less than six weeks at West Texas Military Academy prior to that. They were not even one semester through the year, and Tony had already at his third school. Why did he keep going to military schools? He hated these damn places and loathed some of the tight-assed, overzealous little windup toy soldiers he found there. Everybody dressing the same, looking the same, acting the same, getting up and going to bed on the same schedule… and now he got to do the whole thing over again. God-damn-it.

Where was Dad gonna send him next? Tony had no intention of staying here. Or taking this seriously. It was gonna be so fun to get kicked out again. It was also gonna be fun to see when Dad would break from his endless series of business trips and show up for something in person. Tony hated that, too. Dad was barely present in his life at all much of the time, and when he was, he always seemed to have something better to do.

Hull House barracks came alive, with dozens of boys getting up and opening their room doors and beginning to get their uniforms on, making trips to the latrine and running the sink each of them had in their rooms. Everybody was getting ready. Tony decided he'd pass. He wasn't going to get up. They'd just find him lying here, not going to formation, not going to inspection, and if they didn't like it, they could eat shit. Maybe they'd get really pissed off and kick him out early. The room light came on, and Tony groaned and shoved his head under the pillow. The noise out in the halls got worse as the door to the room was opened. The overweight boy that Tony had seen sleeping in the bed across from his was wasting no time getting ready. Wonderful. The kid was probably happy to be here and everything.

"Reveille, reveille!" Coach Tanner called, his rich baritone voice booming through the barracks hallway. "Uniform for today is BDU's! That's Battle Dress Uniform, ladies!"

"Stuff your BDU's!" a boy shouted.

"Let's try that again," Tanner replied.

"Stuff 'em, Captain Tanner, sir!"

"That's better, Mister Marshall. Why are the rest of you not fully dressed and ready for Mess I formation at 0630? You people better move like lightning and sound like thunder! I wanna see doors open, lights on! Now, now! This is not a luxury resort!"

"Can we change that, Coach? Please?"

"That's a negative, Collins."

"I think it'd be much better that way, sir. Sounds nice."

"Cadet Sergeant Major, don't you have something more productive to do with your time?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Then do it."

"Yes, sir."

Tony listened to the sound of boots hitting the tiled floors all over the fucking place, and thought blissfully of the idea that he just might get out of here today if he stayed here long enough. One set of boots joined the pair already moving around in the room, but Tony didn't bother checking who it was. It didn't matter. None of these little cadets were important to him.

"Room, at ease!" Travis Phelps suddenly called out.

"Piggy, what is Mister DiNozzo doing there? They sound reveille loud enough around here to wake the dead. Why didn't you tell Coach Tanner your roommate died the night he got here? Explain this to me, my man!"

Disinterested as Tony was in all this, he couldn't help but be a little surprised. This was a cadet with rank, possibly a lot of rank. He sounded used to speaking with authority. _How does he know I got here last night_?

"I don't know, Sergeant Major."

"Hey, you! Get up!"

 _Nope. No such thing happening today, sonny_.

"One more try, my man."

 _Uh-uh. No way. Better get your superiors in here so they can expel me_.

"Okay," the boy said pleasantly, "works for me."

Just as Tony was starting to congratulate himself on the success of his scheme, the metal frame of the bed gave a sudden screech as it slid on the tiles. Before he could even begin to process what that meant, the entire bed tilted away from the wall, and Tony was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. He landed in a heap, with his head barely catching the edge of the pillow, and the rest of him tangled up in his school-issue blanket.

As angry as he was startled, Tony sat up and looked for the one responsible. The lean, red-haired, grinning cadet standing over him seemed a likely candidate. His nametag read "MARSHALL" and the black rank insignia of a cadet command sergeant major was pinned to either side of his collar. Beneath the uniform were indications of a strong, athletic frame, one which the youth had put to good use turning Tony's bed on its side. Well, 'good' was probably not the right word.

"You do that to everybody?" Tony demanded.

The boy laughed, doing something else that seemed to come easily to him. "No, just the ones who won't get up," he answered. "Listen, you're really handsome and all, and good job doing all that PT, but today's uniform is not underwear." He went over to the open closet and grabbed a BDU shirt, blouse and pants, then picked up a black pair of leather boots, and threw the whole set of items at Tony. "Better put these on. Your patrol cover's- here." The redhead picked that up and threw it at Tony as well. "Phelps, you get this room straight. DiNozzo, put your damn clothes on. Welcome to Remington, my name's Christian Scott Marshall, and I will be your brigade sergeant major for this school year."

"Jesus, you wanna go somewhere else yet or what?" Tony grouched, getting to his feet. "Or do you always like watching guys in their underwear?"

"Don't be late to formation," Marshall said, ignoring what Tony had said. "I'd hate to have to write you up on your first day."

 **XX**

The day commenced with dizzying speed. After racing downstairs and clumsily falling in with Alpha Company out on this street that ran by the barracks, Tony marched down to the mess hall and ate breakfast in a strange new dining area, surrounded by guys he didn't know. Every last one in BDUs, every last one with a short, neat haircut.

There were so many of them! For a military prep school, this place was actually pretty big. With what Remington was said to cost, Tony found himself hoping the food here would be better than at his last one, but no. It was enough to keep you alive, but the people who made the food here- at all military schools- seriously seemed to be exclusively using canned food that probably expired in 1966. Tony ate what he was given anyway, because he knew this was all they'd be giving him. He knew that part of the game was in their favor. He'd play along where he had to, but he looked forward to the first moment where he didn't.

Mess I lasted forty-five minutes, but it was still over too fast. After having to form up and march back to the street in front of Hull, Tony then had to run upstairs and finish rebuilding the room that kid Marshall had so kindly helped destroy. He didn't see the red-haired boy again, for which Tony found himself feeling thankful. No way did he want to be around someone who was clearly at this school by choice. Not to mention, people who showed up and dumped him out of his bed tended to rub Tony the wrong way. Somehow, doing that tended to make a bad impression with Tony every single time.

The kid was one of "them"- pencil-pushing, robotic, rules-and-regs-obsessed careerist cadets who all thought it was their destiny to become the next Douglas MacArthur. So what if he had a sense of humor? Occasionally, one of those windup toy soldiers did. It didn't change the fact that they were all too busy indoctrinating other kids to ever consider actually thinking for themselves.

But even as Tony inwardly fumed about the injustice of it all, he fixed up the room to the bare minimum, mostly because Travis Phelps seemed to be worried about it. The fat boy with the thick glasses was trying his best to look properly military, but was not having much success. He simply was too heavy, and Mess I alone was enough to tell Tony that he was not having a good time at Remington. The macho, competitive atmosphere typical to military schools held little tolerance for those who stood out from physical deficiencies. Boys who were too fat, above all, were not looked on well, and some cadets targeted them like it was their job to do so. That was what Tony had seen at his last school, and he was beginning to think he'd be seeing it here.

Colors- the raising of the flag and playing of the United States' national anthem- and morning formation inspection was enough to tell Tony what he needed to know about that. The tall, black-haired boy who commanded 1st Battalion, a cadet lieutenant colonel named Park, came up to Tony and Phelps and immediately began finding problems with the uniform of the latter.

"Shine those boots, Piggy," Park said. "They're a disgrace. New guy here looks better than you. His boots look like crap but then they got drawn from supply last night. He's got an excuse anyway. You gonna fix your shit or what?"

"Yes, sir," Phelps answered immediately.

"Yeah, whatever," Park said. "You can shine 'em but you'd still be fucking fat. You oughta join the swim team with me so my Dad can see me outswim a great white whale."

Tony didn't like all this casual cruelty. Park was saying some nasty things, and he didn't even seem to think anything of it. Even so, Tony found himself hesitating, wondering if he should really be sticking his neck out for some boy nobody seemed to like when he didn't even know anybody here. Everyone's opinion might be affected by the fact that Tony had associated himself with the boy called Piggy. Did Tony really want that?

"Hey, Park," Tony said uncertainly. "Maybe-"

"Shut up, new guy," Park said, not even looking Tony's way. "Piggy, you look like you could use some exercise. Golan's holding a PT session out in front of Aubrey Hall at fifteen-hundred. That's three in the afternoon in case you didn't know. You think you can get your fat ass out there and do some pushups?"

"Yes, sir," Phelps replied, sounding like he'd much rather do anything else but knew he didn't have a choice.

"Hey, Park," a boy said, coming up beside the battalion CO. "What about the new guy?"

The tall, broad-shouldered cadet lieutenant colonel glanced at Tony a moment, then nodded. "Okay, Summers. Him, too."

The two boys moved on, doing some spot checks here and there but mostly the inspection was just a formality. They took their places at the head of the group of companies that made up 1st Battalion, and everyone stood at attention as the brigade commander received reports from each company commander on how everyone was present or accounted for. Then the flag was raised, and the Star-Spangled Banner played. Then, the company TAC officers made their comments for the day. Since Alpha's was Tanner, the big, dark-skinned man came up alongside the company CO, Long, traded salutes with him, then spoke to the group of boys.

"Another day in paradise, boys," he said, grinning. "You gentlemen get yourselves to class, and actually learn something this week, will you?"

The cadets laughed, and Tony found himself joining them. Tanner had an all right sense of humor, it seemed like, even if he took this cadet-land stuff too seriously.

"Now, some of you may have noticed a new face in the barracks. His name's Anthony DiNozzo, senior who just transferred in. Make sure to introduce yourselves when you get a chance, and make him feel at home. Mr. DiNozzo, stand fast. Everyone else, dismissed!"

As the others left for class, DiNozzo decided he'd humor Tanner and stick around. It was whatever. Going to class, not going, it made no difference to him.

"So, you gonna give me that tour, now?" he asked as Tanner approached him.

"As promised," the big man answered. "Looks like your uniform fits you all right."

"It still looks dumb."

"Well, can't really help that," Tanner said. "Unfortunately. Some of the guys think it's the height of fashion, if you can believe it. I can help you find your way around, though, so let's get on with that and not make you too late for your second class of the day. Speaking of, we had to guess classes, too."

As they started walking, Tony asked, "What'd I get signed up for?"

"Here's the list," Coach Tanner said, handing a piece of paper over. "And you oughta try adding a 'sir' on the end more. People will understand you being new, but that's only gonna help you so much, for so long. "

"Thanks, sir," Tony said, putting a sarcastic emphasis on the second word.

"That's a start," Tanner rumbled. "Work on it."

 **XX**

"Remington was founded in 1921," Tanner said as they walked the campus. "Name refers to the family that started Remington Arms. They were big supporters of the school when it started and helped it get through the Depression. It's been a military school since 1926. You don't live what I'd call the easy life here, but you get used to it."

 _Assuming I'm here that long_ , Tony thought. He looked down at the schedule.

 _BLOCK I- 0755_

 _BLOCK II- 0925_

 _15-MINUTE BREAK_

 _BLOCK III- 1100_

 _MESS II FORMATION- 1220_

 _MESS II- 1230_

 _ACADEMIC LAB I- 1345_

 _ACADEMIC LAB II- 1430_

 _ATHLETICS- 1530_

 _MESS III FORMATION- 1830_

 _MESS III- 1845_

 _RECALL TO BARRACKS- 1915_

 _STUDY HALL I- 1930_

 _STUDY HALL II- 2005_

 _STUDY HALL III- 2050_

 _PREPARE FOR TAPS- 2130_

"Three formations a _day_? Seriously?"

"You've been to a military academy before, Cadet DiNozzo," Tanner answered. "That's standard anywhere you go."

"I mean, they really think I'm gonna show up?"

"If you don't, one of the TACs will come and get you."

"TACs? Like, thumbtacks, things you pin posters up to the wall with, or-?"

"Training And Counseling. TAC officers assume some of the responsibilities and roles of the parent since this is a boarding school environment. We teach and mentor the cadets and keep order in the barracks, as well as serve as the first stop for any issues between cadets in a given company, or between companies. It's rough here for some of the boys, especially new ones. We try to be there when we're needed."

"Gee, thanks, Dad."

Just then a tall, distinguished man approached them. Tony noticed he was wearing a olive drab uniform with a lot of ribbons on the left side, along with some silver badges, one of them with crossed rifles on it. He wore a golden winged parachute above the ribbons, and a single silver star gleamed in the morning sun on each shoulder. Tanner rendered a salute. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Coach," the man said. He glanced at Tony. "This the new cadet who arrived last night?"

"Yes, sir. Brought him in from the train station last night, just showing him around and taking him by a few offices to do some final in-processing."

"Excellent," the man said, nodding. "I appreciate you taking the initiative and getting that done, Captain."

Watching the interaction, Tony couldn't help but notice how absolutely proper the man's bearing was, how upright he stood. His eyes were incredibly alert, reminding Tony of a hawk or an eagle more than a person. This man was someone to be reckoned with.

Then the man held out his hand to Tony. "Mr. DiNozzo, I'm Preston Blake. Pleasure to meet you."

"Hiya, sir," Tony said, a little flustered but determined not to show it. "Good to meet you."

"Are you signed up for a practice this afternoon?" Blake asked. "Looks to me like you play something. Carry yourself like an athlete. Believe I saw the forms in my office. Was it soccer or basketball?"

"I've played some basketball," Tony answered.

"I can see it," Blake agreed, nodding. "You should think about signing up. I know Tanner's always looking for a few good men. He's our head basketball coach as well as Alpha Company's TAC officer, so if you wind up with both that'll be a blessing or a curse. I hope it's the former."

"Thank you, sir," Tony said. Although he was damned serious about getting expelled, he felt like offering some politeness in return for politeness given. This guy was such a gentleman he should have been wearing a monocle and a top hat.

"I'd love to talk more," Blake said, "but I have a meeting with the Board of Trustees to get to. Mr. DiNozzo, I enjoyed meeting you. Come by my office in Aubrey Hall if you ever need anything. Mr. Tanner, thank you and keep up the good work. Good morning, gentlemen."

With that, Blake moved on, those sharp eyes continuing to guide him from under the black visor of his olive drab hat. Tony was impressed despite himself. That guy had to be someone important around here.

"So, is that the big guy on campus?" Tony asked, looking after him.

"That's Brigadier General Blake," Tanner answered in his deep voice. "He's the President."

"I thought Ronald Reagan was the President."

"One's President of Remington, the other's President of the United States. Take a guess which is which, Mr. DiNozzo."

"General Blake's President of the school?"

"Smart man."

"So Aubrey Hall is, like the HQ or whatever?"

"Yes. It's the main administration building, center of the campus. You don't go up to the first floor unless you're asked. The President, Chief of Staff, Commandant, Alumni Director, the Dean- all the big dogs have their offices there."

"So, do you have an office there?"

"No, my TAC office is in Hull House and my coaching office is in the Stewart Field House."

"But you said the big dogs are in Aubrey. You don't have an office there. So you're not one of the big dogs."

"I'll let you decide that one yourself," Tanner replied. "We're going to make a stop to see the Captain Wilkes, the Registrar, in Aubrey, and then Captain Scott at the Quartermaster a few floors down. Then over to Cabot Hall next door for your first-ever haircut at Remington. Then you're off to class for Block II."

Tony laughed. "Uh, thanks, Coach, but, look, you don't have to do all that. I'm not staying that long."

"Oh, you're not?" Tanner replied, turning and raising an eyebrow.

"Nope."

"I see. Well, why don't you wait and see? The place may grow on you."

"All the other windup toy soldier schools didn't."

Tanner stopped and looked at Tony then, the stern look from last night back on his face. "Mr. DiNozzo, I'd advise you lose the attitude. And a helpful hint: you don't address the General by saying 'Hiya'."

"What, that a new rule around here?"

"No. It's an old one. Let's get moving, DiNozzo. You've got places to be."

As they walked, Tony thought about something, and as they neared the doors of the big, elegant-looking building labeled AUBREY HALL, he spoke up. "Coach, Captain, whatever?"

"Yes, Cadet, Private, whatever?"

"Any chance I could do basketball this afternoon?"

"I thought you weren't staying for long."

"Well, could I at least not be bored 'till you guys kick me out?"

"I don't see why not."

"Thanks, Coach."

"Not a problem, DiNozzo."

 **XX**

Block II turned out to be Leadership & Ethics class, taught in Trask Hall, Room 202 by somebody called Aaron A. Ambrose. He walked in and found about ten cadets already there. They wore various insignia of rank, ranging from private to captain and whatever. A few of the boys glanced up at Tony, then returned to talking with each other or looking at their notes.

"Is this, uh, Leadership and Ethics class?" Tony asked, glancing at his class schedule again.

"Maybe," a blond boy answered. "Are you new? You look lost enough."

A few of the other boys seated in the classroom laughed.

"Are you an idiot?" Tony replied. "You look stupid enough."

The boy laughed, turning to some guys nearby. " _Someone_ doesn't know who I am."

"You're also assuming that I care."

That drew more laughter from several of the boys. The blond, who wore two black diamonds on his BDUs, gestured at his sewn-on nametag. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Alexander R. St. Esprit, IV. I'm the brigade commander around here. Senior cadet, if you want it simple. And you oughta take a seat, DiNo-whatever. Sorry. I'm not good with wop names."

Some more laughter. Tony felt the back of his neck growing hot.

"You really think you're somebody, don't you?"

"I don't think so. I _am_ somebody," St. Esprit chuckled, seeming to be enjoying this to the fullest. "Look, man, just have a seat. You don't need to act all tough to impress me."

"I'm not trying to impress you, buddy."

"I'm not your buddy." St. Esprit gave him a hard look. "Now take a seat. You're new and you don't know how things work in this school. Give yourself time and don't go trying to piss people off."

"How about I do whatever I want, Lieutenant?"

" _Colonel_ ," the boy corrected him sternly. "Six years at this place, nobody ever busted me five grades before. I _said_ , take a _seat_."

"Make me."

"What is it, man? What's with this attitude? Are you some 'tough guy' wanting to get kicked out?"

"Can you arrange that, sweetheart?"

The boy's pale face flushed, and a few guys near him looked pissed. St. Esprit opened his mouth to say something, but he spotted someone behind Tony and sprang out of his chair, hands behind his back. "Room, at ease!"

At once, the entire rest of the room jumped up and stood at ease as well.

"You got a good early warning system going, Brigade Commander," a deep, gravelly voice said. "Got a new man in the class?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

"We got a seat for him?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

"Why isn't he in it?"

"I don't know, Sergeant Major."

"The general's son doesn't know?"

"No, Sergeant Major."

"Guess that's why we need sergeants major, huh? Figure out the stuff the officers can't, right?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

The man stepped forward and came into Tony's field of vision. "So you're the new man, DiNozzo. Huh?"

"That's me."

"You got your schedule?"

"Yeah, right here." Tony handed it over.

The man looked it over. He was wearing the same type of Marine uniform as General Blake had been, with red stripes sewn onto each arm. He had a lot of damn stripes. Three up, four down. He was a bit short, maybe five-foot-six, and his face looked like it had been crudely cut from a boulder. This was not an especially handsome man, and that was putting it nicely, but Tony's first impression was that this was not somebody to cross.

"So you why were you late, DiNozzo?"

Just then, the bell went off in the hallway, signaling the start of Block II.

"Uh, the bell just rang," Tony said, pointing toward the door. "Like, it-"

"I didn't ask you if the frigging bell rang," the man broke in. "I asked why you were late."

"Well-"

"One more try, mister. Why were you late?"

Tony hesitated, then tried something else. "Uh, I don't know, sir. I'll be on time next class."

Then the man smiled. "Taking responsibility. Nicely done. You weren't late, and I'd like to apologize for being so discourteous to you on your first day in my class. My name is Sergeant Major Ambrose, and I'm your Leadership & Ethics instructor. You can call me 'sir' if you gotta, but I prefer Sergeant Major since I'm not a flippin' officer."

"Sure, Sergeant Major."

"Try 'Yes,' Mr. DiNozzo," Ambrose rumbled. "Now requisition yourself a seat. Class has been running for about sixty-five seconds now."

Tony took his bag and set it down on the desk, digging out a notebook and a binder. A moment later, Sergeant Major Ambrose neatly shoved it off the desk, caught it, and handed it to Tony. "Keep this on the deck, Mr. DiNozzo. Bookbags stay on the deck."

Leadership & Ethics proved to be a lot more work than Tony had expected. Not only did Sergeant Major Ambrose keep walking up and down the aisles between the tables and then circling the room, making it impossible for Tony to draw sketches or slouch in his chair at the back of the class, he regularly cycled through the students, never seeming to call on the same person twice. And if you never put your hand up, he made sure to call on you. By the end of the class, Tony had been caught drawing once, warned about slouching twice, and learned that if he didn't want to get called on every single time, he better have his hand up when a question was asked.

Up front, St. Esprit seemed to get a laugh out of Tony's misfortunes for a time. Ambrose jumped on him about that immediately, though, and the blond cadet officer quickly sobered up and focused on the class, ignoring Tony entirely. The class stayed orderly for the whole block, and Tony was amazed at how Ambrose seemed able to keep them all under control without effort.

This guy looked to be tougher than most. Usually, the slouching and such got a teacher riled up sooner or later. Tony was going to have to change things up if he was gonna win this one.

 **XX**

At Mess II formation, Tony deliberately showed up late and got a glare from Park, who he then blew a kiss too. Coach Tanner moved in before the guys could start arguing, but the tall, self-important blond from Block II, St. Esprit, noticed and gave Tony a shake of his head. Tony just blew him a kiss too, and was disappointed when the blond just turned his head forward and called up the battalion. That kid Marshall was there in the battalion staff group, along with another blond teenager that Tony recognized had been sitting beside St. Esprit in class.

Tony was so glad. He was going to make all these tightwad jerks hate him, and while he was at it, he'd do the same with faculty. He knew how they worked. They'd get mad at him for not knuckling under and just doing what he was told like a good little soldier, and then they'd ship him out of here. It was gonna be awesome. Maybe he'd go to a co-ed school next, and Dad would stop trying to send him off to these stupid military academies.

It was gonna be fun when he reported to that stupid PT session that jerkoff Park had signed him up for. Golan was the idiot who'd been sitting next to St. Esprit, probably his stooge or something. All these military pricks at these dumb schools had a second who followed them around like a loyal cocker spaniel.

Well, later today, he'd get to find out how loyal this one really was.

 **XX**

During the gap before athletics started at 1530, group calisthenics were to be led by Golan, and lead them he did. He was there waiting before anybody even showed up. Tony knew because he'd passed by and seen the blond cadet there. Once the eight guys he was expecting were all present, Golan launched right into it. Situps, then pushups, mountain climbers, flutter kicks- the works. He treated it like this was the real thing, for Chrissakes, not a dumb school.

But what started to concern Tony was how Phelps was doing. The heavyset boy, called "Piggy" by nearly everyone around here it seemed, was doing okay early on, but quickly began to struggle. If Golan noticed, he gave no sign that he did. He kept going with the exercises, an air of complete seriousness about him.

Did he have any idea how ridiculous he looked in BDU pants and boots with a frigging RMA sweater on top?

No. Dumb question. None of these military dicks had any idea how dumb they looked.

"One, two, three!" Golan barked, effortlessly leading the group in the exercises. He not only took part in the PT he was in charge of, but genuinely seemed to relish getting to do so. "One, two, three!"

"Oh, man, the wakeup this morning was bad enough, but the food?" Tony complained to Piggy. "I mean, can you believe how much our parents are paying for this place?" After a few more reps of the mountain climber, Tony added, "Took me two weeks to get kicked out of my last school. I think this time I'm going for a new personal best."

Piggy didn't answer. He didn't seem to have the breath for it. He struggled up again and again, a little slower each time.

Then he went down.

Tony knelt beside him, forgetting about the PT. "Piggy, you all right? Man, you're all flushed…"

"Stop!" Golan called out, moving in. "Cadet Piggy, what the hell are you doing?"

"He needs a break, Golan!" Tony said, looking up in exasperation. Did this guy never know when to quit?

"Drill Leader."

Tony stood up, looking at Golan. "What?"

Golan stared right into Tony's face from just inches away. "You will address me as 'Drill Leader', Cadet DiNozzo. Here at Remington any cadet leading a PT session will be addressed by that title."

"Okay, well, Drill Leader, I think Piggy needs some time out. Maybe the nurse."

"Piggy," Golan said with ill-concealed impatience, "is gonna stay right where he is until he learns to keep up with the rest of the squad."

Tony stood up. "I think you should let him take a break."

"I don't think so."

"I didn't ask what you thought, Golan."

They were face-to-face now. The other boys had stopped and stood around uncertainly, while Piggy lay on the concrete, trying to regain his breath.

"That's two demerits, DiNozzo," Golan said.

"What for?" Tony asked, amused.

"One for dropping out of PT. One for your tone."

"So, is Piggy going to the nurse, or what?"

"Don't worry about him. You worry about yourself, DiNozzo. I know you're new, but you better listen. You're gonna get back in line if you know what's good for you."

Tony smirked. "Well, one thing's for sure. I've never known what's good for me."

Golan stared at him, disbelief now added to the anger. He wasn't used to being talked to like that, clearly. Tony was gonna help educate him on that, no doubt about it. The blond managed a smile after a few moments. "Is that right?"

"You bet, buddy."

Golan shook his head. "That word again." He turned and looked at Piggy, who was still on the ground. "Get up!" he barked. "On your feet, Phelps! Come on, _get up!_ " When the pudgy boy struggled to his feet, still breathing hard, Golan snickered. "Still the great white whale, huh, Piggy?"

"Yes, sir," the boy answered.

"So can Park keep 1st Battalion under control or not?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You ready to do some more PT?"

"Yes, sir," Phelps said, although he clearly wanted to do anything else.

"Hey, Golan," Tony said, "I don't think you oughta talk to him like that."

"I'll talk to him however I want, DiNozzo. Now what am I? You saw my rank earlier. You're so fucking smart, so what am I?"

Tony hesitated, not sure what this guy was even talking about.

"Come on!" Golan said, jabbing Tony in the chest with a finger. "Tell me something, anything, you moron, but you better tell me what I am! Let's go! Now, now, now!"

Tony thought about it and decided on an answer. "You're an asshole."

The formation cracked up laughing, and Golan's eyes flashed. Tony saw it and prepared himself for the fight, but suddenly a red-haired boy was there, grabbing Golan's right arm and holding it down.

"Golan, you stupid bastard, hold it!"

"I don't like smartass new guys, Marshall," Golan snarled. "Let go!"

"Golan," Marshall said, "if Gunny Ellison sees this we'll all be walking tours. If Sergeant Major Ambrose sees us, we'll be lucky to graduate."

"Goddamn it, Marshall!"

"Come on, man," the redhead insisted. "Please. You can't go beating up every new guy who mouths off. And I'm here because practice starts in ten minutes. Just let it go. You got better things to do, Colonel."

Golan paused, took in a deep breath and let it out. He cast a glance around, seeming to notice the audience. Then he cast a glance at the nearby buildings, probably wondering if anyone had seen the proceedings from a window.

"All right," the blond said. "Okay." Glancing back at Tony, he said, "You better get it together, DiNozzo."

"What if I don't?" Tony retorted, mouthing off because he could.

"Fucking _Christ_ ," Golan hissed to himself. He took a breath, then looked back at Tony. "Listen to me, man. Keep mouthing off and I'll send you home with your nuts in your pocket. And for your information, I'm your brigade executive officer." He turned to the other cadets. "I'll see you idiots next time. Dismissed!"

Tony still felt like being a wiseass, but Piggy let out a groan as he relaxed from the position of attention. Golan sneered but didn't say anything as he walked away.

"Jesus, what an asshole," Tony said quietly. "Piggy, you okay, man?"

"I'll be fine, I just need to sit down," the pudgy boy answered. "It's okay."

"Are you sure? Maybe we oughta get you to the nurse or something."

"Thanks, but I'll be all right."

"Well, okay," Tony said uncertainly.

"Better get to the barracks and grab your PT uniform," Marshall said. "Coach Tanner doesn't like it when guys are late to practice."

"How'd you know I told him I'd do basketball?" Tony asked curiously.

"Word travels fast around here," the redhead answered, checking his watch. He sketched out a salute as he moved out. "See you."

"All right, sure," Tony said. "Whatever, man." He paused, then looked at Piggy. "Hey, so which way's our barracks?"

Piggy pointed. "That way. Better hurry if you want to get to practice on time."

"Thanks, Piggy," Tony said, nodding. He turned and hurried in the direction the fat boy had specified.

 **XX**

Fifteen minutes later, Tony made it to the Walter P. Chrysler basketball gymnasium, a place big enough that it had to be able to seat five hundred people when the bleachers were all pulled out. More than a dozen boys were already there, making shots at the hoops and dribbling basketballs around. The steady, randomized beat of the balls hitting the polished wood floor, the squeak of shoes as the guys moved around, the glare of the lights and the slightly musty smell that all basketball gyms seemed to have… if there was any place around this school that Tony was gonna like, it was here.

"DiNozzo," a deep voice boomed. "I see you took your time joining us. Give me eight laps around the edge of the basketball court. I wanna see those feet move!"

Tony turned around and immediately began to protest to the big, dark-skinned man. "Aw, come on, Coach, I only got here yesterd-"

"Come on, get moving!" Tanner barked, clapping his hands together. "Let me see how fast you can run, DiNozzo!"

"Well-"

"Go! Go! Go!"

Tony gave up and started jogging. While he did, he waved to the guys as they practiced, drawing some odd looks, curious stares, and, best of all, laughter. That was the thing Tony always went for with his antics. He was gonna get kicked out, sure, that was the goal every time he wound up at a new boarding school. But there was no reason not to make 'em laugh while he was at it.

The run was actually not that bad, especially with how it was pretty chilly outside. Wasn't soccer practice held outside? Every soccer coach Tony had met was a fanatic. Actually, coaches were fanatics, period. It was almost guaranteed that Golan was outside right now, running around in shorts and a t-shirt. Tony sincerely hoped that jerk was freezing his ass off.

While he ran, Tony tried thinking about some things he wanted to do other than this, and he inevitably wound up thinking about girls. That got things moving, all right, but that just made it awkward trying to run normally. A visit to a bathroom stall was up next. First chance he got. Great way to relax. It wasn't as good as some other ways, but it was something.

After he finished with his laps, Tony went up to Tanner, who was speaking with a tall boy wearing a blue and silver uniform jersey, number 10. The jersey left the arms and shoulders bare, revealing strong, well-defined muscles. Tony had a feeling before he got close, had a sense from when he saw the red hair. But when the boy turned to face him, Tony groaned aloud.

"Shit, not you again."

"Me again," the red-haired boy said, grinning. "Are you disappointed?"

"No, just annoyed. I'm getting tired of seeing your face."

The cadet sergeant major threw back his head and laughed. "You're gonna see my face a whole lot, my man! Better get used to that!"

"Oh, please no."

"Please, yes." He held out his hand. "I don't think we were properly introduced. Christian Scott Marshall."

"Mickey Mouse."

"Okay, I'll get that put on your jersey if you want. If you make it onto the team."

"I'll make it. Just give me a ball and get me started."

"That's the first time you've sounded serious about something," Tanner remarked, glancing at his clipboard. "Let me hear more of that, DiNozzo."

"I mean it," Tony said. "Just give me a ball. Let's go, come on."

"Oh, I'm gonna have fun with this," Marshall said, and he turned and shouted at the boys on the court. "I need a ball!"

"No wonder you got lady troubles, Marshall!"

"One-Ball Marshall's missing his left nut, guys! Somebody look for it!"

"You guys cut it out and throw me a damn basketball! And get off the court! I'm going one-on-one with the new guy!"

Tony glanced at the red-haired boy curiously as the other players cleared the court. One of them tossed Marshall a basketball, and he began dribbling it with practiced ease. He tossed it up, caught it, and turned to Tony. "Coach wants to see what you can do, DiNozzo. So do I. So come on, and let's see what you got."

As Marshall headed out onto the court, Tony couldn't resist saying, "I don't think I'm gonna come on anything just yet."

"Don't worry about that," Marshall shot back. "Not everybody's smooth like me. I got plenty of lady friends. Impress me and I'll set you up." He threw the basketball at Tony, who just barely caught it before it would have struck him in the face. The brown-haired teen wanted to be angry, but the red-haired boy was out on the court, eagerly taking up a ready posture, watching Tony, waiting for him to move. The redhead couldn't wait to get started. He couldn't wait to play. Tony understood that, and felt a temptation to like this cheerful, energetic kid.

Tony put on a smirk as he started dribbling the ball, moving towards Marshall's side of the court. "Okay, ginger boy. Brace yourself."

"I'm shakin', baby, I'm shakin'."

 **XX**

What followed was the toughest game of one-on-one basketball that Tony had ever played. He was warmed up when it started, eager for some competition. By the end he could feel the sweat dampening his PT shirt, could hear his own heavy breathing. Behind that playful, lively exterior was a kid who played basketball like it was the center of his life. He played hard, and moved faster than anyone Tony had taken on before. He was energetic and animated off the court. On the court, he was almost a blur. Tony was good, and he knew it, but Marshall was better. He was faster, better at blocking, could dribble and shoot on the move with more skill. He blocked Tony like he knew what he was going to do before he did it, and the harder Tony tried to play, the happier the redhead seemed to become.

The more intense the game got, the more energy Marshall seemed to display. Tony brought out everything he could think of, everything he had learned, and then started mimicking some of the new things he saw Marshall doing. His legs started to feel like lead, his lungs were on fire, and his arms really, really wanted a break. But Tony didn't want to lose to this guy, so he pushed himself and kept going.

Come on, come on, no _way_ was he gonna lose. They were 3 and 3. Tony wasn't a pushover at this game, not by a long shot. So what if Marshall was fast, so what if he thought well on his feet? Even if he was better at the game, maybe, Tony would beat him. He'd beat him because Marshall was gonna get cocky, get to thinking he had this game in the bag, and then-

 _Shit_!

Tony had slipped up for a second while he and Marshall were moving back and forth on the court, the redhead trying to move onto Tony's half and Tony trying to stop him. It was a second, just a single second's lapse in concentration, but that was all the captain needed. Tony saw him make a break for it, sprinting by him in a rush of air and a blur of blue and silver, and moved to block him again, but it was too late. He poured all his strength into flying down that court after the redheaded boy, who really was in amazing shape. How else could anybody run like that after doing so much of it already?

Marshall was almost at the 3-point line, and already he was lining up a shot. Tony saw the upward tilt of his head, the almost quizzical way he glanced at the net. He sprinted forward, finally passing Marshall, who by then was raising himself on his feet, tossing the ball into the air. In desperation, Tony jumped up after it, raising an arm in a last-ditch effort to knock it off course. His fingers just barely brushed the underside of the orange sphere, and then it was gone, out of reach, and Tony went down hard as the ball dropped through the hoop and the guys cheered.

That was it. The game was over. Tony had lost.

Above him, the captain stood, holding a hand out. "Hell of a game, DiNozzo," he said.

"Just a warmup," Tony replied. Touchy pride made him stand up on his own, but the red-haired youth beside him didn't seem to mind.

"Not bad, DiNozzo," Tanner commented from where he stood nearby as the two boys walked off the court. "I wanna see you bring that kind of game onto my court every practice. Every single one. Do that, and we'll talk about getting you a jersey. How's that sound, Captain Marshall?"

"I'm for it," the red-haired boy said. "Hey, you boneheads! Get over here and meet the new guy!"

Tony shook hands with a couple dozen guys, and at least acted like he'd remember their names. But hey, it was all good. He'd get kicked out soon, but until then, he'd play some basketball. A good and workable plan.

 **XX**

Having planned his act well for dinner, Tony showed up late for the Mess III formation and kept making mistakes while they marched, which annoyed Park to no end. But the best part was when they were in the mess hall itself. After St. Esprit recited the Cadet Prayer, the companies started to line up for food. As Honor Company for the current nine week session, Alpha Company went first. Tony waited a couple minutes, then stood up and headed right over to the line.

"Hey, what're you doing?" a boy asked.

"Who're you, man? Are you even in Echo?" another boy said.

"Who cares?" Tony replied. "Nobody. Nobody cares about this stuff." He reached over to the stack of trays. "I just want some food. If I gotta eat this crap, at least give it to me fast."

The other boys in the line near him seemed confused, but Tony ignored them. He stayed there where he'd cut into the line until he felt at tap on his shoulder.

"There's a line," a boy with two black diamonds on his BDU collar said. He had pale skin, short auburn-brown hair and cool gray eyes.

"I know," Tony answered, turning back to watching the boys ahead of him.

Tap, tap. Tony turned his head again.

"Well, this isn't the back of it."

Another boy, this one wearing one black diamond on his collar, came walking over. He glanced at Tony's BDU blouse. "You're not in 2nd Battalion. Who's 'DiNozzo'?"

"That would be me, my man. Don't you feel privileged? I'm here all week, limited time only. And how do you know which battalion I'm in?"

"What's he talking about, Carroll?" the second boy asked. Tony glanced at him, reading his nametag: HEISLER.

"What, are you guys cousins or something?" Tony asked.

"Hold on," Carroll broke in. "Why are you in Echo Company's line? I don't know you and I know every cadet in my battalion."

"It isn't yours, bud."

"Why are you in line with the wrong company, DiNozzo?"

"I want to eat the shitty food faster."

Carroll laughed. "That's good! I like you, funny man. Now get out of Echo Company's line."

"Nah," Tony said.

"What's this goin' on up here?"

Tony looked and saw a squat, broad-shouldered man with a bunch of stripes on each of his sleeves standing nearby. "Nothin', man," Tony replied casually. "How're you?"

"Make it Gunnery Sergeant, _man_ ," he replied. "Are you in Echo Company?"

"Not really."

"Then get out of the line. You're holding up the whole show. Nobody's movin' until you get out. Both lines are stopped. You want attention, right? Well, I just made sure you got it. About five hundred guys waitin' on you, now. Make a choice."

Just then, Park came striding over, looking thoroughly pissed. He started to say something, but the sergeant held up a hand.

"I'm gonna give you ten seconds to think this over," the gunnery sergeant said quietly.

Park, Carroll and Heisler were a long way from the only people staring at Tony. The mess hall had gotten pretty quiet, and even the ladies working behind the counters and the cadets on serving duty had all stopped to watch. Finally, Tony stepped out of line and went over to the sergeant, enthusiastically shaking his hand. "Hey, I'm DiNozzo, nice to meetcha, man!" He laughed. "I just love this, you know? This place is great."

"I know just what you mean," the sergeant replied. He grinned and chuckled. "You come see me at the TAC office tomorrow and we'll find you a Springfield to march with. I got one that'll fit you right, I just know it."

"Sure, all right, mister," Tony said, getting tired of the guy's burning stare. He stepped out of the line and started to move back to his table, but the NCO grabbed a tray and held it out, blocking Tony's path.

"We gonna learn you respect for rank, too. This here's the last time I let you get away with ignorin' fact that I was in the Corps for twenty years. Cuttin' wise may get you by at those other schools, but this is Remington. We give respect where due. You got that?"

"Sure."

"Then relocate yourself, cadet, and do it in a hurry."

 **XX**

Across the room, the brigade staff, who sat at their own table just as the battalion staff cadets did, were looking incredulously at Tony. The redheaded boy, the basketball captain- Marshall, that was his name- wasn't looking surprised, as some were, or with thinly-veiled anger and contempt, like the two blond jerks were. He just turned up his palms with an expression that said, _What was that about?_

Tony shrugged and sat back down at his chair.

"You're just all kinds of set on making friends around here, aren't you?" one of the boys asked. "You're doing a great job if that's your plan."

"Yep," Tony said carelessly. "I live to get on the nerves of these military dicks."

"Think about that when you're marching tours," a boy with sergeant's chevrons answered. "Gunny Ellison's relentless. He's never gonna forget you after you ran your mouth like that." He looked more closely at Tony, then groaned. "Oh, no. I knew you were in my squad. I saw you this morning. Christ."

"What, is there a problem, dude?"

"The problem is that the General is coming to review the Corps tomorrow! It's Veteran's Day? Remember? November 11th?"

"What General? Don't we have some general guy in charge around here?"

"Lieutenant General Alexander R. St. Esprit, III," Phelps spoke up from across the table. He sounded like he'd memorized the name.

"Oh, the illustrious brigade commander's father?" Tony laughed. "Wow. Oh, man, is it the Second Coming already? If his son's like this I can't wait to see Daddy."

"You watch yourself tomorrow," the cadet sergeant warned. "I mean it. Alexander the Great's dad is a war hero. Three-star general, Medal of Honor, everything. He's Class of '55, too, and he's slated to join the Board of Trustees the day after he leaves the Army."

"I'll do whatever I want. Boys, you don't get it, but I ain't gonna be here long."

"Well, if you want a quick way outta here, that's a good one," the sergeant said. "But my old man served under The Great's father. My Dad talks about The General like he's God. You watch yourself, buddy. You're gonna make enemies around here if you take on The General."

Tony laughed. "You sound like you wanna lick his boots."

The boy slammed a fist on the table, making everybody jump. "You watch it. I'm not gonna say it again. I warned you."

"Thanks for the warning."

" _Fuck_!"

The cadet sergeant abruptly shoved his chair back and stood up. He strode away and stopped at the brigade staff table. St. Esprit and Golan soon looked over, cool, calculating looks on their faces. Marshall shook his head reprovingly, then looked up at the sergeant and motioned him down.

"I pissed him off," Tony said, but he only got a few chuckles, not the laughter he was expecting.

The boy gestured angrily, and he looked ready to storm out of the mess hall. But Marshall stood, walked him over to Gunnery Sergeant Ellison, and said something. Ellison glanced at Tony, then nodded to Marshall. He and the other boy stepped outside and started walking down the hallway, talking.

"Well, Collins knows who to go to, anyway," a boy remarked. "He's seriously bucking for rank but he knows who to talk to."

"What?"

"People around here trust Marshall. Just watch the middle schoolers when he makes his rounds. They're the little kids around here and they love him."

Another boy spoke up. "He has so many kids asking for his help with homework and just trying to talk, he has to schedule actual fucking appointments sometimes. But if you go up and ask him, he finds time no matter what." He paused, then added, "A lot of his friends are pricks. But he's a good guy."

"Whatever," Tony said, shrugging it off, determined to play it cool. He was a little concerned he may have overplayed his hand, though, and so kept a low profile throughout the rest of dinner. The food wasn't great, but hey, better than nothing. Or maybe Spam. Actually, the food around here was probably reheated Spam with some "eggs" and "cheese" added in. It was all garbage, just like this overrated prep school. How could anyplace so lousy cost so damn much? Dad was out of his mind.

 **XX**

At the end of the meal, Brigadier General Blake stood up and addressed the five hundred cadets seated in the mess hall.

"Boys, just a little reminder to be on your best behavior. The Superintendent of the United States Military Academy is paying Remington a visit tomorrow. It will be full dress, so make sure you've got everything ready. Don't wait to shine up at the last minute. And for those of you who try it anyway, make sure this is the last time. I'm sure your classmates will back me up on that."

Many of the boys laughed appreciatively.

"For those of you who might be thinking this is a good chance to try and get a leg up on that West Point application, don't overthink it. Lieutenant General St. Esprit is the Superintendent, not the head of Admissions. Like me, he gets all kinds of credit he doesn't really deserve."

More laughter from the cadets.

"But it is a great honor to have him here. Make no mistake. Even if he didn't pick the Marines like I did, we crossed paths a few times in a little place called Vietnam. I know you will all give him the respect he's due. For any of you that're new or unsure how things work, just follow the example set by the faculty and staff, and your cadet leaders. Now you've all got study hall coming up, but it's being abbreviated tonight so you can make sure you're squared away for tomorrow. Get a good night's rest, and do Remington proud when the General gets here tomorrow."

There was a strong round of applause after that, a testament to General Blake's standing in the faculty and the Corps of Cadets. Tony took notice of it, but he was already thinking of something else. He'd come up with what sounded like a terrific idea. It was hard not to smile, the more he thought about it.

 _Achieving a new personal best on how fast I get kicked out might be easier than I thought._

* * *

 **A/N: 12-13-2017.**

 **After months of nothing, I finally completed another chapter. We meet the 1986-1987 Honor Corps in Chapter 1, and now we meet 17-year-old Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. in Chapter 2. I managed to feature one of the few brief flashback moments we see in S12E14: "Cadence".**

 **But here's the thing. Simply mouthing off to a cadet with rank isn't really gonna be enough to have a group like Honor Corps come after you. These guys operate in secret; they'd need more than that to justify going out of their way to act. That's just my interpretation, but it's justified, I'd say. Besides, I also try to write a bit of fairness and sense in for the members, too. They don't like Tony's manner, but he's new and with the big parade and the visit from the Superintendent of West Point tomorrow, they have their minds on more important things. The next day, though, he just might win their undivided attention.**

 **My thanks to anyone who posts a review. All feedback is welcomed.**

 **In particular, I want to thank VGLittleBear, whose steady support for this and other stories of mine for NCIS has been priceless.**

 **I cannot say when I'll get to completing another chapter, but I will aim to have it be much sooner than the many, many months that passed between Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.**

 **4-8-2018: I have been going through each chapter and implementing some proofreading and corrections, thanks to feedback provided via PM by VGLittleBear, who has returned from a *long* absence to nitpick the heck out of this story. But without that, I would have missed all these mistakes I'd made. Just goes to prove that VGLittleBear's help and support really is a priceless commodity.**

 **About a word used in this chapter: "wop". According to the infinite wisdom of UrbanDictionary, it is: "An epithet used for those of Italian descent. WOP stands for WithOut Papers. Many Italian immigrants had no papers to identify themselves and were branded as WOPs."**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Even with afternoon classes cancelled, it was anything but a normal day ahead.

Up on the fourth floor of Hull barracks, the members of brigade staff were getting ready. Even with their zealous attention to every aspect and detail of military dress, they still were up an hour before reveille, running through final checks of their rooms and uniforms. All of them were responsible for their own uniforms, their own rooms, but they also took care of each other, looked after each other's rooms, uniforms and personal appearance. And to allow the staff to better do this as a group, each of them focused on something.

Mark Golan had emerged as the shoe-shining specialist, and he moved around each of the seven individual rooms granted to the brigade staff members, a can of parade gloss shoe polish and a shine rag in hand, making sure every one of the top-ranked cadets' shoes would shine like grounded stars.

St. Esprit, with his seemingly-endless supply of Brasso, was the favorite for shining brass. Like Golan, he moved from room to room, buffing up everybody's dress hat badges and belts, and carefully wiping down every officer's saber and, in Marshall's case, his NCO sword.

D'Arbanville had ironed everyone's dress shirts last night, making sure everything was perfect. He made sure everyone's shirt stays- elastic bands with fastening devices that were fitted to the bottom of the dress shirt on one's left and right, and to the top of your black dress socks- were properly in place, so the shirt tucks they'd all have would be immaculate.

Cadez swept the hallway while Chandler ran a white glove over every edge and surface, from door arches to desks, that could possibly collect dust. Anytime he found something, a spray bottle of cleaner was applied and a cloth used to wipe the surface down. Edwin, meanwhile, was working on the latrine, scrubbing down, cleaning and polishing every surface he could find.

Marshall, who had been in charge of making certain everyone got up early as planned, got out a contraband coffee maker, a bunch of Folger's coffee packets, and started stirring it up in contraband mugs. Captain Raymond Cosworth, the Brigade Staff TAC, knew about Marshall's coffee making talents and was always trying to catch him in the act. But so far, he hadn't managed it, and he seemed to enjoy the game itself more than any possible outcome of it. The same went for the compact color television that Marshall- always looking out for the morale of his boys- had hidden away somewhere.

It also helped that Marshall had figured out which type of coffee was Cosworth's favorite- black and piping hot- and would often turn up at the captain's office one floor down with a mug of it, a peace offering with no explanation of where it came from.

Cosworth knew the brigade staff hid cigarettes, a coffee maker and mugs, a color tv and 'reading material' from him, but as long as they were clever enough that he didn't find it, he let it go. It helped that the boys on staff were as sharp as anyone on campus when it came to discipline and attention to detail. The captain's job almost did itself sometimes, but, like all TAC officers, he had to stay on his toes and make sure the boys never got too complacent, never started assuming that they and their contraband was safe.

In each boy's room, there were certain personal decorations to spruce up an otherwise spartan and plain environment. Marshall had pictures of his older brother, Captain Joshua Marshall, and his father, Sergeant Major Bruce Marshall, both in Marine dress blues, and a Marine Corps flag. St. Esprit had a picture of his father in full dress blues and an Army flag. Golan had the Air Force flag, a West Virginia flag, and a picture of his father in Air Force uniform. Chandler and D'Arbanville, of course, each displayed a rectangular Confederate battle flag.

Flags and uniforms were big stuff with this group, but it was only natural, given where most of them had come from, and where they intended to go.

After finishing his inspections of everyone's brass, St. Esprit was back at his room, and Golan headed in to help him get his Class A uniform on. That consisted of a gray blouse, white trousers, white shirt with black tie, dress hat with white cover, black shoes with black socks, officer's belt under the blouse, white waist belt outside it, white gloves, and an officer's sword.

And of course, there was his class ring. Each ring committee for each graduating class chose a unique design for the right side of the ring, always displaying the class year, while the traditional feature, a stylized version of the RMA coat of arms, was displayed on the right with the school's year of foundation, 1921, on display as well. On the inside was an inscription of the cadet's name or initials- the Honor Corps boys had gone for full name only since the group was started in late 1941- and a motto or phrase if they so chose. Alexander the Great had chosen his family's motto, "Animus Vincet Semper," or "Courage Always Conquers". It was also translatable as "The Spirit Always Conquers," a meaning St. Esprit loved.

"This isn't the first time Dad's come here like this," he said, his voice shaking. Golan saw he was trying to keep cool and having some trouble with that. His hands were nervously jumping all over the place as Golan helped him get into uniform. "This isn't the first time I've seen him in uniform. Shit, what am I talking about? He's been in uniform my entire life." He reached for his sword, dropped it, and Golan caught it and handed it to him. St. Esprit grasped it, secured it to the Sam Browne belt it went with, and fixed the small silvery chain to the hilt.

"I'm scared, Mark. Something's going to go wrong. It's gonna go wrong and- I just know it."

"Don't be," Mark Golan assured him. "You're just worried because this is the first time he's coming here since you became the big boss. You got three diamonds, he's got three stars. You're the best of us, Alex. There's a reason you got picked to run things. I trust you. Just stay calm and do everything the way you've done it a hundred times before. You'll be fine."

"My, but that was a mighty, highfalutin speech," D'Arbanville drawled from the doorway.

"Shut up, Darby," St. Esprit and Golan said at the same time.

"Oh, hey, hey, watch it, boys," D'Arbanville laughed. "You might just hurt my feelings."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm trying to do," St. Esprit retorted. "I got you as my third in command? If me and Golan drop dead, the Corps is so fucked."

"Don't you worry your little head about it. I'll have it all under control."

"I'm sure," St. Esprit said, in a voice that said he wasn't sure at all. "Hey, Darby, how 'bout you be a good operations officer and go bring me my fuckin' coffee so I can get operational? No Army man's worth a damn until he's had a good cup of coffee."

D'Arbanville laughed. "Yeah, all right. Sir." He sketched out a salute and headed back down the hallway to Marshall's room. Or at least he tried, because the door to the stairwell opened with a bang, D'Arbanville screamed, and everybody knew Captain Cosworth was on the floor.

"You're so jumpy, you aristocrats!" Cosworth laughed, pulling the door shut behind him. "I heard all kinds of thumpin' and bumpin' and knew there was a pillow fight in progress. Day's about to start, boys. You ready to see Jesus Christ Himself come to campus?"

"Please don't talk about my father that way, sir," St. Esprit said, coming out into the hallway still fastening his necktie. "It's a legacy, sir. I'm Jesus Christ IV, he's Jesus Christ III. It's kinda our thing, sir."

Cosworth laughed, brushing a hand through his graying, short-cut hair. He accepted a mug of coffee that Marshall came up and handed to him. "Such prompt service, it makes me think you knew I was coming."

Marshall grinned. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

Cosworth laughed and drank some of the coffee. "Okay. Morning inspection time. I'm disappointed I didn't get to wake everybody up, but there's always tomorrow. And watching the Prince of Charleston jump ten feet in the air and squeal like a girl- ah, it's things like that which make my job worth doing."

"Well, I'm glad to help, sir," D'Arbanville said, glowering as he fixed some imperfections in his shirt tuck. "I wish you'd find someone else to scare like that."

"After this year, I'm gonna have to," Cosworth admitted. "I got to get my laughs in while I can."

"That sounds great, sir," D'Arbanville replied with thinly-veiled dread.

"Yep. Now let's get to those room inspections."

 **XX**

Travis Phelps was a better roommate than Tony had expected. He had already cleaned up the room before taps last night, and once they got up, he helped Tony with the basics of getting his full dress uniform prepared and his shoes shined to an acceptable degree.

William Henry Long, the Alpha Company commander, looked like yet another overzealous military dick in all that gray and white. His brass shone like a golden mirror, and his shoes gleamed like stars where the lights reflected off them. He walked in and immediately found mistakes in Tony's uniform, and in Travis'.

"You guys know a general is coming, right? Not the head of an animal shelter or something? Suck that gut in, Piggy. More. More. And shine those shoes up, both of you. They're a frigging disgrace. I'm honestly worried about Alpha Company right now. We're gonna look like- DiNozzo, what are you doing?"

Tony had taken his chair, turned it around, and sat down facing Long with a look of exaggerated interest.

"Oh, don't mind me. I can't wait to hear the rest of it."

Long frowned. "I heard you got an attitude. I guess I heard right."

"Well, at least you figured that out."

"DiNozzo, this is a military school."

"I noticed."

"Well, are you gonna get with the program?"

"Not really."

"I don't need a wiseass in my company."

"That's not my problem, dude."

Long was about to say something else, but Tanner walked in just then. "Ten-hut," the cadet captain said, coming to attention. Travis did too, but Tony just continued to sit there, dress uniform partly assembled.

"Mr. DiNozzo," Tanner said. "Just the man I was looking to see. We got a big day ahead of us. Good news is I managed to talk Gunny Ellison out of having you shot at dawn. That's a favorite of his. But the grace period's short around here."

"That's fine, Coach."

"I'd recommend against it, DiNozzo."

"I'm fine."

Tanner looked uncertainly at Tony for a few moments. "I can't keep you on the basketball court if you wanna go looking for trouble, DiNozzo. Marshall's impressed with how you played yesterday, and so am I. But to have any chance of being on the team, I got to have you staying outta trouble. Just keep your head down and you'll be fine."

With that, the big man turned to Long. "All right, Mr. Long. Let's start room inspections."

"Yes, sir." Long glanced at Tony, but said nothing. After a moment he followed Coach Tanner out into the hallway.

 **XX**

At breakfast, a boy behind Tony whispered to him. "Hey, man. You're that new guy that wants to make trouble, right?'

Tony suppressed a laugh. This was the first time somebody seemed genuinely cool with that. "Sure."

"I got a plan you're gonna like, DiNozzo. You want in?"

"What's the plan?"

"I got a whoopee cushion I filled with paint. I'm the brigade guidon corporal. Put the cushion on The Great's seat up at the High Table. Guess who's gonna sit next to him at Mess II and Mess III today."

"The General?"

"Bingo."

"So the General's gonna get sprayed with paint."

"Right on those beautiful Class A blues, baby."

"You're gonna do that to a three-star general?"

"Right in front of that brat son of his at lunch, you betcha."

Oh, that was gonna go over so well. Tony had been thinking of volunteering to do the cadet prayer- at lunch, oddly enough- but this was just beautiful. It would be embarrassing for so many people, and if the rendition of the prayer that Tony was planning didn't do it, the paint cushion sure would.

"So you in or out?"

"Well-"

"In or out?"

Tony thought about it. "In. But let's do both things at dinner, not at lunch. I want 'em to think the day's over and everything went great. Then bam. We hit 'em."

The boy snickered. "I like the way you think. Okay. Deal."

 **XX**

At the breakfast table, Collins generally ignored Tony, and Travis didn't seem to want to talk very much. With afternoon classes all called off, the boys were in a good mood.

"Look at Jesus Christ IV up there at the High Table. He looks like he's about to blow a gasket if you know what I mean," Jimmy Peters, one of the boys on the varsity basketball team, said with a nod.

Tony glanced. The blond looked like he'd walked off an Academy recruiting posted. Everything about him was perfect. It was obvious even to Tony, who was hardly the greatest expert on these things. He looked like Cadet Captain Long. No, better. And he did indeed look nervous, though he was trying hard to act like he wasn't. As easy as it was for Tony to figure all that out, this guy was not doing a very good job.

"What's his problem?" Tony asked.

"His dad," Peters answered. "Alexander the Great worships the ground he walks on." Peters shrugged, brushing at his black hair before turning back to his toast. "His dad's done a lot of cool shit. He won the Medal of Honor for holding off an entire platoon by himself when the VC hit his unit's line during the Tet Offensive in '68."

"God, Peters, you sound like such a nerd," Andrews, a private first class who lived across the hall from Tony, said with a laugh.

Peters shrugged again. "It's right in his CMH citation. It's in the Hall of Honor where it always is. It's just the facts, Andrews."

"Yeah, well, do the facts entitle his son to walk around this place like he owns it?"

"I never said that."

"Peters, if you could handle a ball like you can recite facts about the Army brat's dad, maybe the varsity basketball team wouldn't be in such shitty shape."

Laughter and guffaws went around the table, and even Collins, who had been glowering at Tony again, cracked a smile.

Peters leaned back, eyebrows raised. "You just showed up here, DiNozzo. You think you can play better than me?"

"I took on Marshall."

"And lost. You remember that part? He let you walk right up to a win and then yanked the football away like he was fuckin' Lucy."

"He's fucking Lucy?" Tony asked incredulously, deliberately misunderstanding.

The boys at the table laughed again, and Tony felt a sense of satisfaction that his amazing sense of humor was working, especially after yesterday.

"He probably is fucking somebody named Lucy," Peters answered. "I mean, Marshall… look. He acts like a nice guy. And he is. But-" Peters hesitated. "You got a sister, DiNozzo?"

"Nah."

"Okay, well, good, because if you'd said yes, you'd have a problem. Especially if she was good-looking."

"Why's that?"

Collins laughed. "Marshall fucked half the cheerleader squad his sophomore year here. Literally half. We've got, what, twenty-four on there, usually? He got through twelve in one school year. He should honestly run for President. You could never have a sexual harassment scandal with Marshall because he has fucked everybody."

"Oh, so he goes for guys, too?" Tony asked with a laugh.

"I got no idea," Collins answered. "What about you, Peters?"

"At some point he probably has. I mean, his brother's a Marine and Marines will fuck anything."

"Hey, look, as long as it hasn't got a penis, I'm good," Andrews answered, and everybody laughed.

"God, why did they make us put on full dress grays hours before the big shot even turns up?" Tony grouched, pulling at his necktie and then his collar, because both seemed to be trying to strangle him. "Seriously, I don't care if somebody says this looks good. It feels like crap."

"Yeah, better get used to that," Collins remarked dryly. "Rule of military dress uniforms, DiNozzo. The better it looks, the worse it is to wear it. Plain fact."

The last breakfast Tony would ever have here- hopefully- passed quickly and easily. The food was actually pretty damn good, but then, this big-shot was coming and it was a holiday, so it made sense the school would actually try for once. Tony couldn't wait for the last supper. He'd play this dumb game for a while longer, then call Dad and just give him the heads up that things at Remington were not working out.

It was gonna be a wonderful day.

 **XX**

At precisely 12:15, he arrived.

There was no need to specify who; everybody knew who was coming. Over a hundred veterans of all services would be coming, veterans of peacetime service, and more often, of service in war. Men were coming who had served in the world wars, Korea, and Vietnam, and a significant number were relatives of cadets. The special parade today was honoring all of them, not just General St. Esprit, but he was the star of the show by far.

Lieutenant General Alexander Rosh St. Esprit, III. RMA Class of 1955, West Point Class of 1959. Recipient of five Bronze Stars, three Silver Stars, two Distinguished Service Crosses and the Medal of Honor, plus over a dozen other decorations from the United States, South Korea and South Vietnam. He was the most highly decorated man ever to graduate from Remington, and was argued by more than one person to be Remington's greatest graduate.

Tony was greatly annoyed to learn all this from the little cadre of boys at RMA who seemed to have built a damn shrine to this guy. It wasn't like the whole Corps saw him with such reverence, but the dude's son was far from the only person who adored him.

"Hold the Line," they called him, a nickname he earned during the fierce night battle that earned him the Medal of Honor. While serving of the executive officer at Firebase Ripcord in the highlands of Thua Thien province, South Vietnam, the then-Major Alexander R. St. Esprit, III was abruptly promoted when the first mortar round fired at the base on the night of January 30th, 1968 killed the commander of the 3rd Battalion, 502nd Infantry Regiment. Taking command of the battalion, St. Esprit had raced from position to position, firing his M-16 rifle, coordinating defensive action by his company commanders, and calling for air support.

He helped patch up wounded men, hurled back four enemy grenades and threw plenty of his own, and during a particularly severe point in the fighting when the enemy broke a section of the line, took on what was estimated to be an enemy infantry platoon of 25 to 35 men. By himself. He held the line until a platoon could be moved into place to cover the breach, and the whole night was heard screaming encouragement to his men, most often the phrase, "Hold the line, men! Hold the line!"

The man had to be just about insane to have done something like that, Tony decided. Assuming it hadn't been exaggerated beyond recognition by all these stories being told about him. But so what? So the guy was brave. Big frigging deal. Tony wasn't here to give a crap about moldy old military heroes riding out their last years until retirement. He wasn't here to give a crap about anything.

When they called the Corps to formation some ten minutes later, Tony groaned out loud. He had been lying on his bed, wishing he didn't have to wear this stiff, uncomfortable uniform that made him look like he was trying to be King of the Penguins, for crying out loud. That dumb gun they'd handed him when all the companies drew rifles from the armory didn't help. So he was a penguin with an old wood and steel bolt-action rifle. Was all this stuff _designed_ to look stupid? It sure as hell did.

But he and Kevin LeBlanc had made a deal. They were going to each play it cool and not cause a bit of trouble until the time was right. So that meant showing up for stuff and acting like a good little cadet.

For now.

 **XX**

A black Cadillac limousine bearing two red flags with three red stars each, accompanied by two more identical long black Cadillacs, was parked along one side of Lansing Road. A bunch of Army officers were standing nearby, talking with some of the school's top brass.

Before the battalions formed up, Tony watched a few boys, led by none other than Jesus Christ IV, approach a distinguished-looking man in Army dress blues who had to be Hold the Line himself. Son saluted, and father saluted back. They briefly embraced, after which the general shook hands with each of the other boys.

"Look at that," a boy called Michaelson whispered from two spaces over- Travis was on Tony's left.

"What?"

"I didn't know the Pope wore Army blues."

A few boys laughed. "No, no, that's too low a rank," Peters whispered back. "You guys got it wrong. That's God."

"I knew it," Tony whispered. "Explains why St. Esprit thinks he's the Son of God."

"You people better cut it out," Long hissed from up front. "If Gunny Ellison comes by-"

"All right," Coach Tanner rumbled, walking over. "Cut the chatter and get ready to march, boys. Parade's about to start."

"Do we hafta, Coach?"

"Come on."

"My feet are killing me already."

"I don't wanna."

At least half a dozen boys were all voicing complaints and requests to be allowed to go to the infirmary. Tanner just laughed and waved them off. "You boys have done this before. Even you, DiNozzo. This isn't your first military school so don't even pretend you don't know how to march."

"But I really don't, Coach," Tony insisted. "I, uh, never showed up for that part."

"Just match you footsteps with the boy in front of you. Keep in step. When they say left face that means 90 degrees turn to the left. Simple stuff, DiNozzo. I know you can handle it."

"Gee, thanks, Coach," Tony said sarcastically. Several boys laughed.

"Anytime, DiNozzo."

"Brigade!" St. Esprit the Lesser called out.

"Battalion!" Park and two other idiots called.

"Atten- _shun_!"

The whole Corps straightened its ranks.

"Right- _face_!"

Tony executed the motion easily. He had indeed done this before, although he hated to admit it. The knowledge was going to come in handy as he placed nice for the next few hours.

The brigade staff marched down the steps of Aubrey Hall and took their place at the head of the long gray line of cadets. With them was the brigade color guard, made up of a cadet carrying the Remington Military Academy flag, the Rhode Island state flag, and the United States flag, with two boys wielding rifles on either side.

"For-ward- MARCH!" St. Esprit called out.

With one cadet calling cadence in each platoon of each company, they marched down Lansing Road, headed to Ryland Field, the wide-open, well-mowed grassy field that was used as RMA's parade grounds. Band Company's drums kept up a steady staccato cadence of their own, and Tony found it easy to keep pace with everybody else around him. The rifle on his shoulder was not even a big deal. He was a strong boy, after all, more than ready to handle some old gun on his shoulder for a little while.

As a member of the lead company in the lead battalion, Tony got to watch the brigade staff and color guard lead the entire Corps down to the field. They knew their stuff, all of them. Even Tony, with his contempt for military drill and all the puffing and posturing, knew some sharp marchers when he saw them.

It was sad knowing that was all they did with their lives, march and shine things. It had to be interesting to them somehow. To Tony it was repulsive and boring. Up with them, carrying the American flag, was Tony's secret ally, his conspirator, who was doing a wonderful job playing nice as well.

Everything was going to plan.

All along Lansing Road were civilians. Parents, probably, and no shortage of alumni from the number of class years Tony spotted on those baseball hats bearing the school seal. Kids of all ages and, no doubt, plenty of people from the town of Tiverton, Rhode Island as well.

Jesus, Tony thought with amazement, they all came to watch this? Is there really nothing better for any of them to do?

Off to the left was a reviewing stand, and a bunch of steel bleachers just behind it. Alpha Company marched to a spot that Long, or somebody, apparently had already designated, halted and turned so the reviewing stand was ahead of them now, at the opposite end of the field. 2nd Battalion, as Tony could see from the guidon, marched down behind them and halted on 1st Battalion's left, then 3rd Battalion on their left.

"Okay, boys," Tommy Williams, the Alpha Company first sergeant, whispered from up front. "If you got to shit- it's already too late."

The boys laughed.

"Jesus, shut up, Williams," Long hissed.

"You know you love me."

"Yeah, in a strictly fraternal, non-gay manner. So help me out and shut your hatch."

The banter went on, with the rest of the company trying to keep quiet and not laugh, until a Marine sergeant major in dress blues came up to the front of Alpha.

"Williams, Long- I have a bet with Captain Marshall. See him on the reviewing stand?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major," the two boys answered.

"Good. Now, he says he can cross the parade field before I kill the first man that starts playing grab-ass in the ranks, and that includes first sergeants and captains. I say I'd already be through ten slackers before he got near me. You wanna find out how fast I can go to work?"

"No, Sergeant Major," Long answered, his voice shaking a little.

Ambrose leaned in close, that deep, gravelly voice of his taking on an even more menacing note. "If you got any hope of living to see tomorrow's sunrise, boys- any hope at all- you're gonna be good as angels the rest of this parade."

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

"And Williams, Long- I'll be watching you."

With that, Ambrose turned and headed the way he had come, disappearing from sight. During the ten frigging minutes that the Corps stood there, waiting for all those chumps to make their way to the stands, nobody in Alpha Company moved or made a sound. Even Tony didn't feel tempted to try his luck with a man whose voice sounded like a tank engine turning over. Not right now, at least.

With General Blake, General St. Esprit, and what looked like a thousand-other people, military and civilian, all gathered at the stand and the bleachers, Coach Tanner ran through some announcements and a general explanation of how the parade would go. Then, at long last, St. Esprit IV called the Corps up again, sending the words across the parade ground: "Pass in review!"

 _Finally_ , Tony thought.

The parade took more than an hour. Every single company commander, plus the brigade and battalion staffs, called "Eyes right!" and the cadets commanding each unit raised their saber in salute while the rest of the boys turned their heads a fixed forty-five degrees toward the reviewing stand. Each boy farthest to the right in each rank kept his head straight, and so for 2nd Squad of 1st Platoon of Alpha Company, that meant Collins was there, with Peters, the corporal, to his left. Tony didn't enjoy having to stare at either boy's face, but neither was he all that interested in the star-spangled big-shots up on the reviewing stand. Even so, he couldn't help but to notice the bright blue ribbon with the golden star-shaped medal hanging from it that was draped around the three-star general's neck.

It was actually kind of cool. Tony had never seen anybody who'd won the Medal of Honor in person before.

 **XX**

After the parade ended, the cadets went straight to the armory and turned in their rifles by company. The drawling boy with three silver dots on his shoulders was there again, working alongside the boys who had to be his staff.

"All right, step up," he called out. "Next!"

"That's me, handsome," Tony said with a grin, holding out the rifle.

"That's interestin'," the boy said in a bored voice. His nametag read CHANDLER. "Read that serial number off the weapon for me."

"What, you can't read, sweetie?"

A few boys laughed at that, but they stopped when Chandler snapped his head up from his clipboard. "Now, I asked you nice the first time, boy," Chandler said, his drawl taking on a menacing note. "I didn't become Brigade S-2 to talk with ya. Now _gimme_ that serial number."

Feeling the heat of the boy's stare, Tony abruptly realized he had overstepped himself. Time to play it cool, cool. He wasn't trying to start anything. Yet.

"4858000," Tony said simply, reading off the top of the rifle just ahead of the bolt.

Chandler smiled mockingly at him. "See? Was that so hard?" He snatched the rifle and handed it to one of the cadets standing behind him, waiting to place incoming rifles on the long, long rows of storage racks. "All right, DiNozzo, get out of my face. Next!"

 **XX**

At lunch, Tony gratefully chowed down on the chicken cordon bleu that was available, amazed once again that this place was capable of serving up real food. He was working on the second one they'd handed him when a boy came up behind him and said, "Boom!"

Tony jumped, but Travis jumped more. The boy laughed and took an open seat to Tony's left. It was the grinning redhead, Christian Marshall. "So. How was the parade, honey?"

"Oh, it was just great, darling," Tony replied immediately. "I think I loved it. I think I'm turning into a military dick."

"That's good," another voice, similar to Marshall's but slightly deeper, said from behind both of them. "Maybe you should join the Marines."

"Josh!" Marshall was on his feet in an instant, embracing the tall, formidable-looking man in Marine dress blues who had come over to the table. He wore two silver bars, a handful of medals, and despite his extremely short haircut the resemblance was obvious. This had to be Captain Marshall.

"Uh, is this your dad, Basketball Captain?" Tony asked with a smirk.

Both Marshall's laughed. "No," the officer replied, "I'm Joshua Marshall, this bum's older brother. I also went to this school, so, if I were you all I'd think about suicide. It'll save you a lot of time."

The boys at Tony's table laughed appreciatively. Tony found himself liking the older Marshall, much as he found it easy to like the younger one.

"Did Dad make it?" Christian Marshall asked.

"No, he wanted to but being division sergeant major for the 2nd Marines means sometimes you gotta say no to stuff, even family stuff. Besides, they got a whole big show for Veteran's Day going on down at Lejeune. You know how it is."

"Josh, when are you gonna come and see me _before_ a parade?"

"Never, little brother," Joshua Marshall answered. "I don't ever do that. I want you to have your game face on." He clapped his brother on the shoulders. "You're looking good, Sergeant Major. How'd you pass up commanding this overgrown zoo? You remember when I was the guy with three diamonds? 1978, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth," Christian Marshall needled him. "Hey, Josh, meet Dead Man, he's been making friends all over Remington." He gestured down to Tony.

"Captain Joshua Scott Marshall, U.S. Marines," the young man said, bowing and giving Tony a rakish smile. He held out his hand, but when Tony reached out to shake it, he took Tony's hand and kissed it like he was greeting some princess.

"I think he likes you, DiNozzo," Collins said, and the table cracked up laughing.

 **XX**

After lunch, there was a service in the chapel. The chaplain, Lieutenant Commander Ronald Clark, led them in singing each of the Armed Forces songs, aided by General St. Esprit and Captain Marshall. They then launched into "Onward, Christian Soldiers," "Eternal Father, Strong to Save" and then "Faith of Our Fathers".

Christian Marshall, Golan, St. Esprit, and several other boys wore the white robes of the boys' choir, and Tony was surprised to see each of them becoming moved to tears by the service. They seemed especially attached to "Faith of Our Fathers," singing that one with special strength and fervor.

Then, when the last note of that song finished echoing from the huge pipe organ and the voices of the thousand-plus attendees in the chapel, Commander Clark said, "Please, be seated."

Tony gratefully took a seat, sick and tired of standing up after so much time on his feet today. But the wooden bench was only so much better.

General Blake approached the lectern.

"Thank you all for coming today, ladies, gentlemen, cadets, alumni, and other distinguished guests. Welcome. For those of you who don't know me, I am Brigadier General Blake, President of Remington Military Academy. We go by the motto 'Verum, Animus, Officium,' and for those of you who don't speak Latin, that's 'Truth, Valor, Duty'. Those are words well known to not just anybody who's attended here, graduated from here, but anyone who has served. It was words like that which enabled the United States of America to emerge from the devastation of Pearl Harbor to cross the Pacific and the Atlantic to bring victory to the Allied Powers, and in the process become the strongest nation in the world. We are incredibly privileged to be Americans. More so than most of us know in our lifetime. Veteran's Day is a day of celebration, of giving thanks to all who are serving or have served. I would like to express my sincere personal thanks to every veteran we have in this room today. You have all given up something, whatever service you were in, whatever length of time you were in, whatever role you had. Thank you, gentlemen. If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't have even half of what we have today as American citizens."

Blake paused, and applause rang out across the chapel.

"At this time, I'd like to invite Lieutenant General Alexander R. St. Esprit, III, distinguished member of the Class of '55, to say a few words. General St. Esprit needs no introduction for most of us. For those not familiar with him, he is Remington's most decorated graduate from the Vietnam War, and currently serves as the Superintendent of the United States Military Academy at West Point, also his alma mater. General."

General St. Esprit stood and walked to the lectern to the tune of more applause. He was quite a sight in that black dress blouse, blue pants with yellow stripes down either side, and loads and loads of medals displayed in all their glory. Tony found himself wondering how this three-star didn't jingle like a piggy bank when he walked.

The General was an impressive man who carried himself with tremendous confidence. He had the same blond hair as his son, the same cool blue eyes, although his brush cut was turning iron gray as he began to age. His eyes swept the rows and rows of people, and he began to speak.

"Thank you, General Blake. And thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming out today. But most of all," he gestured to the rows occupied by the boys, "thank you to the Corps of Cadets. Remington has emerged as a leader among this nation's schools, and in the world, for the men of character it produces, the leaders it creates, the heroes it has forged. Veteran's Day is a moment of incredible pride for this school. Our alumni have fought in every war the United States has waged since Remington's foundation in 1921, and received the highest commendations the United States gives for meritorious service and valor on the field of battle."

"Every Veteran's Day, someone comes up to me and thanks me for serving. Very often far more than just someone. But why thank me? What did I do that was so special? I have asked myself that many times. My father did, too, and his father before him. My family are not strangers to military service. But when someone tries to thank me, I always want to tell them, "Don't thank me. Thank my father. Thank West Point. Thank Remington. Thank all the veterans who served before I did, some of whom taught me so much of what I know about serving and about leadership."

"Ever since I was a child, I have never wanted to be anything else but a soldier. I have always believed it was the sole purpose for which I was born. And while we must cherish the fact that the modern American must choose to serve, I believe it can be truthfully and rightly said that there is no higher calling than military service. No other profession demands so much and gives so much in return. No other profession shields so many from evil, treachery and deceit. Veterans stood up to the threat of disunion and said, "No". Veterans stood up to the tyranny of an expanding Germany in two separate wars, to the machinations of Imperial Japan, and said, "No." And they have said the same to the forces of Communism for some forty years. Ladies and gentlemen, on this day, think of everyone who is serving or has served. Take a moment to thank them, without embarrassing them, for what they do and have done. This is their day. But we cannot let only November the 11th be the day we have a love of our veterans in our hearts. Every day we must strive to make Veteran's Day. Thank you."

Applause filled the chapel, and a whole bunch of people were standing up. Tony reluctantly went with it as he saw everybody going along, and that kid St. Esprit looked like he was crying, for God's sake. This whole place was nuts.

 **XX**

Before the dinner formation, DiNozzo was standing around in the lounge he'd discovered in the bottom floor of Aubrey Hall, killing time. Well, it was really just a white-tiled room with some vending machines and a couple ground-level windows and nowhere to sit, but that was basically a lounge at this place.

A small, skinny cadet called Mazursky was jamming quarters into one of the machines and then growling in frustration when it spat them back out. It was actually pretty funny listening to him swear.

"It's not gonna happen, my man," Tony said.

"Shut your fucking face, buddy," Mazursky shot back. He put the quarters in again, went "Yes!" as he put in an order, and then exclaimed in disbelief as the little spiral thingy spun only partway forward and left the candy bar hanging.

"I told you."

"And I said shut up!"

"Okay," Tony laughed. "Fine."

Mazursky got on his knees and stuck an arm under the little door that you pushed inward to get the snack. He twisted so he got his arm inside the machine and started trying to reach for the bar he'd tried to buy.

"Really?" Tony asked.

"Really," Mazursky answered. "I'm getting my fucking candy bar."

Tony was watching Mazursky's efforts with a mix of amusement and admiration when a trio of boys came in. A lean, pale-faced youth with blond hair was at their head. Another one Tony recognized as Chandler. The boy at the front of the group glanced at Tony, then lost interest and moved toward Mazursky, who was still struggling with the vending machine.

"Hey, Mazursky," the boy said lazily.

"What the fuck do you want?" the middle school cadet snarled.

The three boys laughed. Lazy, confident, in no hurry at all.

"Is that any way to talk to me?" the boy said, in that pronounced Southern drawl that made him sound like he should have been in a movie about the Civil War. Just thinking of that stupid war made Tony hate this kid even more, because with an accent like that, he probably said his prayers to portraits of his dead Confederate ancestors.

"I just did. I'll talk to you any way I want."

"I'm a cadet major, and besides, I live in a mansion. Where do you live? Some cute little rented house? Maybe an apartment? Or is it the trash dumpster behind the mess hall?"

The three boys laughed again.

"Fuck off," Mazursky snapped.

The boy just laughed. He reached out with one hand and started knocking Mazursky's head against the glass front of the vending machine. Thump, thump, thump. "Come on, boy, get me a candy bar. Hurry up."

"Get the fuck off me, bitch!"

"You better learn to respect your superiors, kid," the boy drawled. "Otherwise life's gonna be harder for you here than it already is."

Thump, thump, thump.

The other two boys were grinning and chuckling, and the one in front seemed to think this was the greatest joke in the world. Tony decided he'd had enough and pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against.

"Come on, Mazursky. You kinda suck at this. Actually, how about you su-"

He got no farther. Tony had crossed the room in what seemed like one second, and he reached out and shoved the pale boy just as hard as he could. The cadet major staggered back and almost fell over, his face twisting with surprise and rage.

"What are you doing? What's this?" he demanded, glaring at Tony as he drew himself up.

"Get outta here." Tony's voice was hard and flat.

"Oh, and who's gonna make me?" the boy asked. "You? You got a name for yourself already. You had better learn to respect your betters."

"When they come along I'll be sure to take notice."

The boy smirked. "Well, well. A new kid with an attitude, that's unique." He paused, then put on an expression of mock surprise. "You must not know who I am! That's why you're acting like this!" He gestured at himself. "I am Henry Arnoldus Moultrie D'Arbanville, and I'm from Charleston." He smiled. "I'd shake hands, but, uh, you're a little bit trashy for me. Not in my league. Below my social station. You understand."

Tony laughed. "That's seriously your name?"

D'Arbanville raised his eyebrows. "Think my name's funny, do you? It's worth knowing, unlike yours."

Tony scoffed. "Oh, well, look at this, a rich kid who thinks he's somebody! That's unique!"

D'Arbanville laughed. "I know you. Or, I know your surname, anyway. DiNozzo. Your stupid father tried to bum some reproduction art off on my father as original. Of course, he forgets that Father has quite the taste in art. He knew it was fake as soon as it got to the house, and he decided to do more of the buying himself after that."

"I don't think-"

"Lucky for you, your Daddy fessed up to it before my father and the rest of the Old Families ran him out of the business for good. It would've been for the best, I said, because then DiNozzo Senior could go back to making pizzas, 'cause it's about the only thing you fucking wops are any good at."

Tony stood rooted to the spot, shaking with rage, and D'Arbanville smiled coldly.

"Oh, yes," he whispered, "I know all about your scum-sucking 'art dealer' father, DiNozzo. What do you think he does? Sells art? Legitimate, non-stolen, non-fake art? Or did you think he was an _entrepreneur_ or something?" The boy laughed. "You're scum and your father's scum. You aren't fit to even speak to me. Get out of my face and I won't write you up for disrespecting an officer." He reached out and pushed Tony, who immediately shoved him back.

"You want to mess with Mazursky any more, you're gonna have to fight me, asshole."

The boy stared at Tony. "My father's the Governor-elect of South Carolina. You got no idea who you're messing with. I'll remember this."

"Assuming a pampered little brat like you can remember anything."

"You can have it your way, smartass. For now." With his pale, pointed chin, D'Arbanville motioned to the other two boys. "Let's go."

Mazursky eventually wriggled a couple of candy bars out of the machine, giving half to Tony. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

As they each unwrapped and bit into their first bar, Tony asked, "So who is that guy?"

"Well, he told you his name. He's Brigade S-3, third-highest ranked cadet around here. He's from Charleston, in South Carolina. His family owns this really big, really old house there. He thinks he's better than everyone 'cos he comes from the Old Families."

"Old Families?"

"Yeah, a lot of rich old snobby assholes who all marry their cousins and shit because nobody else is 'good enough'. They go back a long way in Charleston."

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"I'm from North Charleston. The Old Families basically own the 'real' city south of us and they make sure we know they think we're just trailer trash. D'Arbanville's a little bitch. Like I said, he thinks he's better than everyone 'cos of his name."

"I noticed that."

"He means it," Mazursky said suddenly. "He won't forget you. Neither will St. Esprit or Golan."

"I don't really care, man."

Mazursky shook his head. "You're making some enemies around here, acting like this. The whole Corps has heard of you and you've been here two days."

Tony laughed. "Cool. Any of them have sisters I can go on a date with or something?"

"Well, I bet Marshall could find you somebody. He fucks anything that's got tits."

"So I've heard."

The bell rang in the hallway outside, and a voice on the loudspeakers blared across campus, "Attention, attention: Formation on Lansing Road for Mess III in fifteen minutes. I say again, Mess III formation in fifteen minutes. Uniform is Class A whites, say again Class A whites, with bowtie and black jacket."

"We better go," the boy said. "Don't wanna be late. Gotta change, now, too. Assholes always switch uniforms on us." He nodded to Tony and scampered off.

 **XX**

As the brigade was forming up on Lansing Road, Tony approached the brigade staff, getting a wink from Kevin LeBlanc and glare from most of the others.

"What do you want, wop?" St. Esprit asked. "I got better things to do."

"I want to make amends," Tony said. "I'd like to do the cadet prayer."

St. Esprit looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Reverence for God is the greatest and most sacred of all things," Tony said simply.

"Nice. You read that in some book?"

"Well, yes or no?"

"No. Get out of my fucking face, DiNozzo. I'm looking forward to a nice peaceful dinner and that means you stay in Alpha Company and far away from me."

"Come on, please?"

"I said no!"

Marshall chuckled. "Come on, Colonel. Let him do the prayer if he wants to."

"Marshall, why are _you_ sticking up for him?" D'Arbanville demanded.

"I'm not, I just think we should let him do the prayer if he wants to."

"Fine!" St. Esprit said. "Now get lost!"

"Thanks, dude," Tony said, smiling and snapping off a mock salute.

 **XX**

Once the entire Corps was in the mess hall, standing behind their seats, and the staff and some guests- most notably General Blake and General St. Esprit- had taken their places at the High Table, Tony went up to the far end of the room, between the rows and rows of tables, the five hundred cadets that went to this place. He stopped, turned, and caught LeBlanc's gaze from one of the tables, receiving a nod to indicate the trap was set. Then Tony said, "Let us pray."

Everyone bowed their heads. Tony did too, and with a solemn voice he said, "Dear Lord baby Jesus, we thank you for these many gifts which you have seen fit to bestow upon us. We thank you for your little fists, pawing at the air, and your diaper, may it remain blessed and never soiled. We thank you for your guidance, and for your chubby little arms and legs. In His name we pray, Amen."

The mess hall exploded. Cadets cracked up laughing, some of whom were struggling to stand. At the High Table, St. Esprit, senior and junior, stood there looking like they'd just learned the U.S. had surrendered to the Soviet Union. And there were some cadets who were looking at Tony like he was the Antichrist. Then Gunnery Sergeant Ellison bellowed, "AT EASE!"

Silence.

"Take a seat!"

There was a rush of scraping chairs, and everyone sat down.

That was when Mark Golan moved faster than Tony had ever seen anybody at this school move. In the time it took for everyone to move their chairs and sit down, Golan, who had just come in from outside, sprinted forward and dove toward St. Esprit IV, meaning that when the whoopee cushion sprayed its cargo of bright red paint with a flatulent sound, it hit him right in the chest, some of it getting on the brigade commander's leg.

General St. Esprit looked stunned. Actually, all the staff and guests of honor at the High Table did. Quite a few cadets did, too.

Marshall sprang up and called out, "Honor Company of this marking period eats first as usual. Remaining order is as follows: Alpha, Bravo, Band, Charlie, Delta, Foxtrot, Hotel, India, Kilo, Lima. Rest!"

With a face as red as Marshall's hair, Cadet Colonel St. Esprit the forth stood up and strode out of the mess hall. Golan followed him. Ellison stood up and demanded that the person or persons responsible turn themselves in immediately, either in the mess hall or at the Commandant's Office, but Tony felt quite certain that neither he nor LeBlanc would do any such thing.

 **XX**

After dinner, there was some free time available, so Tony braved the cold and went to go shoot hoops in the basketball gym with a few of the guys. Marshall was there with his brother, who was dressed in a Marine Corps PT uniform. Both of them, Tony noticed, were in extremely good shape. They were on the lean side, but man, were they fit. Coming over to greet Tony, the two redheads grinned and slapped Tony on the back.

"That was hilarious, bro," Marshall said.

"I loved it," his brother agreed. "But, word of advice. Don't ever do that again. You pissed some people off."

Tony hesitated. "Well, I was kinda hoping to-"

"DiNozzo, come over here and talk to me a minute." Josh Marshall steered Tony away from the rest of the guys as they took shots and dribbled balls around the court.

"What? What's going on?" Tony asked.

"I asked General Blake and he told me this is your seventh high school."

"So what?" Tony said, more defensively than he meant to.

"You're trying to get kicked out. You have a history of trying to get kicked out."

"I'm not-"

"I know it when I see it." Joshua Marshall hesitated. "Look. I get that this isn't your thing. But you better make sure your Dad's got an eighth school lined up. You're gonna be headed there real fast if you don't straighten up and I don't know if that's really what you want."

Tony was confused. He didn't know who this guy was, or why he gave a crap. But he really seemed to.

"Just let me worry about me," Tony said. "Okay?"

"Okay," Joshua Marshall said. "That's not a problem at all." He clapped his hands together. "Boys! Since we got eight people now we can do four on four, nobody has to be the odd man out!"

The guys all cheered, and Peters and Christian Marshall helped run all the basketballs off the court but one.

Tony started forward, then grimaced. Something he'd eaten hadn't agreed with him, it seemed like.

"I gotta go, be right back."

"Hurry up," Joshua Marshall called. "Go, go, go!"

 **XX**

When Tony came back, they played a fierce game with one of the Marshalls on each side. Joshua admitted that soccer was more his specialty, but he played quite well, and Tony was surprised by how much he enjoyed himself. The game ended, a new one started, and before it seemed like half an hour had passed, almost two hours had gone by and the call to barracks was sounded.

"That was a hell of a game, DiNozzo," Joshua Marshall said, grinning and slapping Tony on the shoulder. "Coach wasn't lying about you."

"You're pretty well-informed," Tony said.

"It's my brother. He's the biggest snoop in this school." Joshua whispered it like he was sharing a secret, with his brother standing right there, arms crossed.

"Well, thanks for re-joining us," Tony said with mock annoyance. "Why'd you have to go take a dump right in the middle of the game?"

"Hey, look, Peters had to take a piss and Slade ran in to change his goddamn shoes for some reason. I don't see you getting mad at them."

"Whatever, man," Tony said. "I'm gonna go get my cute little RMA sweater and sweatpants."

"Okay," Marshall said. "I'll see you at practice tomorrow. Provided you aren't in the shit for that prayer you did at dinner."

Tony laughed. "Yeah. We'll see."

Joshua held out his hand. "DiNozzo, it was nice meeting you."

"I guess Tony's all right."

"Tony, then." Joshua smiled. "I gotta say goodbye to Chris and then get my ass on a flight back to Camp Lejeune."

"Okay. Come on by sometime and I'll take you down in basketball again."

Joshua and Christian both laughed. "Those," Josh said, "are fighting words. But I gotta go, so I'm gonna let it go. See you around."

Christian started to go, then leaned over to Tony and whispered, "Keep playing like that and you'll be starting on the varsity team in no time. Just don't do any more silly-ass prayers, man." Then he reached over and pinched Tony in the butt. "Oil check."

"You're so funny," Tony replied, half irritated and half amused.

"I try, my man. I try."

 **XX**

Tony headed into the locker room and went to the locker he'd stuffed his sweatpants and sweatshirt in. Number… was it 159? Same one as he used for practice. Yeah, 159. He rounded the corner, stopped in front of the locker, and recoiled as he saw something that hadn't been there earlier.

On the blue locker door in fresh, blood-red paint were the letters **HC**.

This was clearly something deliberate. The letters were big and bold, something meant to be noticed. Someone had wanted him to see this. Tony immediately whirled and looked over his shoulder, looked all around, listened. Nothing.

Just then Slade came in. "Doopa doopa doo-wah, do- Hey, DiNozzo, you're still here?"

"What the hell is this?" Tony asked, pointing at the locker door.

Slade came over and stared at it. Then he looked at Tony. "I don't know." He suddenly looked frightened, and he backed away from Tony like he didn't want to catch whatever disease Tony had acquired. "No idea, man. Just some prank, probably. I'll see you at practice tomorrow."

The brown-haired boy hurriedly grabbed a backpack from another locker and practically ran from the locker room, ignoring Tony's attempts at calling him back.

Tony sighed, shaking his head. He opened the door and pulled out his sweater and sweatpants. He spotted something black on them, smudges or something, and sighed again, sure there had been some black marker in there with its cap off or some shoe polish left open that Tony hadn't noticed. He held up the sweater, turned it around to look at the black stuff.

It was there. In big letters, once again. Drawn in black permanent marker, but unmistakably on purpose, once again.

 **HC**

 **XX**

Tony put on the sweats nonetheless and headed back to the barracks. It had gotten damned cold out since sundown, and he ducked his head down to avoid the wind. Just a little further, a little further. He hated this damn school and those creepy-as-shit letters drawn on his locker door and the-

Just as he was passing a parked RMA cargo van, a fist shot out and clocked Tony in the jaw. A boy grabbed him with both hands as he fell, spun him, slammed him against the side of the van. It was St. Esprit. His eyes were wild with rage, and he backhanded Tony twice across the face.

"You have humiliated my family for the _last time!_ " he shouted, blowing minty air in Tony's face. Tony raised a fist to retaliate, but St. Esprit grabbed him and slammed him against the van again.

Suddenly Golan was there, grabbing St. Esprit by the shoulders. "Alex, hold it, hold it! Keep it _down_ for God's sake!"

"Dad's _furious_! He said I have to write him an _essay_ explaining why I let the brigade go all to shit, and why I'm still fit for command!" He picked Tony up and slammed him against the van, feet dangling above the ground. "This is _your fault_! _You did this_!"

"Let _go_ of me, asshole!" Tony exclaimed, struggling fiercely.

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up when I'm talking to you!"

St. Esprit looked like he was about to lose it. Golan grabbed him again and pulled him away. "Let the Corps handle it, okay? Honor Corps takes care of scum like him, that's why they're here."

"I'll do this _myself!_ "

"The Corps will handle it," Golan said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Did you see the back of his sweater? He's a marked man. Honor Corps is on him now."

"Honor Corps?" Tony asked. "What the fuck are you talking about? Are you the Honor Corps? Huh? Tough guys? You really wanna do this?"

"Go fuck yourself, wop," St. Esprit spat. Tony swung at him then, but St. Esprit blocked and punched Tony hard in the stomach.

"I was raised to be a soldier, DiNozzo," St. Esprit said, his breathing ragged and harsh. "All my life I've been learning how to fight. Where'd you learn? Huh? A few fistfights at your last twenty-seven high schools?"

"Alex," Golan said in a warning voice. "We got to get back to barracks. His punishment will be delivered by Honor Corps. Not by you. Not by any one person."

"Yeah, whatever," St. Esprit said. "I'm done. I'm fucking done with this."

"Don't worry," Golan said. The two boys walked away, leaving Tony by the side of the van. He caught his breath and managed to stand just as they reached the side entrance to Hull barracks. Golan turned around, grinned, and drew a finger across his throat. Then he turned and headed up the stairs.

 **XX**

Tony was shaken enough by the encounter that he headed right for one of the payphones in the hallway outside the vending machine room where he'd "met" D'Arbanville earlier. This whole place was getting on Tony's fucking nerves and he was ready to get out of here. He searched for some quarters in the return slots, found them, and punched in the number for the hotel Dad was staying at.

"Hilton Belfast," an accented voice answered. "How may I be of service, sir or madam?"

"Yeah, uh, I'm calling my Dad, he's staying here," Tony said.

"And his name, sir?"

"Anthony DiNozzo, Sr."

A pause.

"And you say you are his son, sir."

"Yes, yes! Just lemme talk to him already!"

"Very good, sir. Sir should know it is quite late, however-"

"Just do it!"

"Very good, sir."

The room phone rang for what seemed like eternity. Finally, just when Tony was ready to give up, a familiar voice answered.

"Yes? Yes? What, what?"

"Dad," Tony said, "You gotta send me to another school. I'm about to get kicked out and I hate it here, and-"

"Tony, you called me in the middle of the night to tell me you already got kicked out of _another_ school?"

"Yeah, look, that's just how it happened. Now can I please go somewhere else?"

"Tony, I'm in Northern Ireland! I didn't make you do this! You've been kicked out of six schools already! This one is gonna have to work, and I mean it!"

"Dad-"

"Look, Tony, I got a lot to do over here in the UK. I'm busy. I told you I was busy. You've been playing this game of trying to get kicked out of every school you go to, well, now, you're in trouble. Because I'm running out of schools to put you in, Junior."

"I don't belong here, Dad."

"That's what you said about the last six schools, Junior. I can't keep doing this. Make it work. I'll see you when I get back for the Thanksgiving break."

"Dad-"

But DiNozzo Sr. had already hung up and the dialtone exploded in Tony's ear. _Dad_ , he thought, _you bastard_.

 **XX**

Tony made it to his floor in Hull just as "Taps" sounded. He thought that by then his troubles might be over. Maybe he could go take a shower and then jerk off in peace. That sounded like it would be nice after a day like this. But when he stopped at his door, he saw the huge blood-red letters for a third time, painted there, plain as day.

 **HC**

* * *

 **A/N: 12-15-2017. Chapter 3 is done. Chapter 4 will feature one of the main flashbacks from S12E14, in which Tony tries to hotwire Coach Tanner's car. I am not going to feature the flashback of Tony being confronted by Golan and several other Honor Corps members in the gym, nor will I use the gray armbands, because neither is fitting to a secret society of cadets.**

 **I cannot promise as to when the next chapter will be, but I will work on it and post when I can.**

 **As always, all reviews are welcome. Feedback is quite rare on this site, so I will take whatever people are willing to give. Besides, the best way to know how I'm doing is to get feedback, and I'd be a fool if I was demanding nothing but positive commentary.**

 **You've now met some of the key players at the school, and seen Honor Corps making their first moves against Tony. He's put himself in a difficult position. Tanner will try to help, as will Marshall, but will that be enough? That remains to be seen.**

 **The notes on the parade and the day's events were as accurate as I could make them. I apologize for any mistakes.**

 **UPDATE**

 **-11-23-2018: Did some editing on this chapter, changed D'Arbanville's first name to Henry, like I did when I edited Chapter 1.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Mark Golan woke up well before "Reveille" sounded, like he always did. He rolled out of bed, wincing a little as his feet hit the cold floor. This was an old school, and the radiators that still heated each room never quite seemed to get the job done. It was a little better having your own room, where the radiator had less air to warm up, but not too much.

The blond teenager liked getting up early, especially here at Remington. It meant you would have time to yourself before the day started. You were getting up on your own terms, and you had some leisure time before the schedule that someone else controlled inevitably began.

This morning, though, Mark needed some time to think about the great fuckup they'd had go down yesterday. Veteran's Day, for God's sake. They'd had a pair of idiots pull a prank on Veteran's Day. Right in front of a whole bunch of alumni who stayed for dinner, in front of the whole school. A quick reaction by Mark had saved Alex's father any direct embarrassment, but General St. Esprit had not been pleased. Alex had stayed up well past "Taps" trying to write the essay his father demanded, and was no doubt up already, looking it over.

Someone knocked on Mark's door. From the sound, Mark had an idea who it was, so he just said, "It opens!"

The door opened, and Marshall let himself in. "So yesterday was fun, huh?"

"Don't remind me."

"My brother says we should just get rid of him. Solves the problem, right there."

"Well, LeBlanc is finished. He's got a file big enough that old Fussy won't put up with him anymore after this. And he'll have some people telling him it's for the best. He's gone."

Marshall had a towel around his waist; clearly, he was wanting to take a shower before the day started. There was a funny thing about Marshall and showers. Here at school, he never took one alone. Ever. It was a habit he'd picked up… years ago. Back when the Class of 1987's Honor Corps members were just a bunch of little kids. It was kinda weird that Marshall would apparently never take a shower by himself, at least at school, but then, he had a dozen quirks and habits that were just as odd and inexplicable. He was a great athlete and a great friend, and one of the best leaders Mark knew. It was easy to forgive Marshall's little quirks when you added up everything he did so well, so often.

"Oh, all right," Mark said, giving an exaggerated sigh. He had been starting to get his winter PTs on, but he gestured and took off his underwear while Marshall turned around a second. Mark grabbed one of the neatly-folded white towels he had in his press, and followed Marshall out into the hallway. Both boys took their razors and shaving cream cans with them. The rooms had their own sinks on this floor, but it was a habit of the seven boys on this hall to do things together.

St. Esprit stepped out of his room as they started down the hall. "Damn," he said. "I think it's colder out here than it is in my room." He also had a towel around his waist and shaving cream and a razor with him.

"Shall I wake the staff, sir?" Marshall asked.

St. Esprit laughed. "Nah. They'll all be up on time, so it's fine."

The three boys headed down the hall to the latrine. The lights stayed on all the time, making it easier for sleepy cadets to make their way to and from the latrine and their rooms at any hour. Marshall would probably have insisted on that, regardless, even if it were not a rule. The last time someone had surprised him and shut the lights off while he was taking a shower, the redhead had screamed bloody murder and immediately taken up a defensive posture, shoving away anyone who was near him.

He'd laughed it off, insisting he was just fucking with them, but Mark wondered about that sometimes. Marshall was the only one of the Honor Corps boys to have been adopted, and where he was really from and who his parents were was largely unknown, even to him. Maybe there was some bad memory from way back that had been brought up by the startling event of the lights being shut off while he was in the shower. Mark knew it wasn't from anything at Remington- Marshall had assured them all of that quite plainly. But he didn't want to talk about it, so the guys left that alone.

On this floor, as with all the others, there were no partitions between the showers. The toilet stalls had no doors anywhere in the Academy. It was something you learned to live with, as deprivation and a lack of luxuries was part of the traditionally spartan way of life at a military school. Golan had learned a while back how to handle being around a bunch of other naked boys, and mainly you just avoided looking at certain things and so did they. It wasn't that hard. And besides, Honor Corps kept watch for any faggots in the Corps of Cadets, and put them in their place or shipped them out if they found some. So the chances of somebody trying some gay shit with you were fairly low.

The brigade staff boys often laughed about the fact that, if anyone at this school were gay, the brigade staff floor would probably be their dream residence around here. Seven lean, athletic boys, all in peak physical condition, all of them handsome, strong and young- shit, it was a gay kid's dream, probably. Mark didn't know, since he didn't go that way. No one did who got picked for Honor Corps.

Mark threw his towel over one of the racks near the shower area, then headed up to one of the showers and stood aside as he turned it on. The water that came out of those old pipes was cold as ice in the winter until the damn boilers got some warm water going. Only a fool or a new cadet would stand directly in front of the shower head around here and turn it on.

Marshall hung up his own towel but took his time, and while St. Esprit was messing with his own shower's setting, impatiently trying to get warm water out of it, the red-haired boy came up behind both teenagers and pinched them on the ass.

"Fuck!" St. Esprit exclaimed, jumping and turning around. "You asshole!"

"I told you, the whole Corps is gonna know you're gay if you keep grabbing guys' asses," Mark said. He took pride in the fact that he hadn't even flinched. Really, with all the stupid little grab-ass games that went on in the locker rooms and the latrines, you got used to it, and Mark had known what Marshall was gonna do, anyway. You didn't usually have a little smile on your face before you took a shower.

"I think they know the truth," Marshall said confidently. He patted his six-pack abs. "I mean, with the record I have-"

" _All_ of which is lies," St. Esprit broke in.

"I have tapes," Marshall said, grinning. "I can bring 'em and put 'em in the VCR if you need proof."

"Oh, wow," St. Esprit said. "No, that's okay." After checking the water, each of the boys took their place under the spray. As he was rubbing shampoo in his hair, St. Esprit said, "So I thought about what you said, Chris."

"And?"

"You better make a pitch on that idea of yours at the meeting tonight. I'm not convinced but you should tell it to the guys."

"Aren't we giving Piggy some special attention today?"

"Oh, yeah," St. Esprit said, nodding. "But, uh, Dad is fucking pissed about that shit that the Wop and the Frog pulled. I'm gonna have to answer for it this morning when I give him the essay. I'm short on sleep and I'm pissed off myself, and I don't see why the fuck we should let one shithead stay here when the other is leaving today. You talk about it at the meeting and we'll see."

"All right, Alex," Marshall said. "I'm not arguing with you. I just think-"

"At the meeting," St. Esprit cut him off. "Not now."

"Okay. So for today?"

"Put the freeze on him. Nobody knows him, nobody talks to him. The basketball team's a little harder to control, but… fuck it. Let them throw their orange balls around for all I care."

"I'm the captain of the guys that throw the orange balls around."

"I guess that's why the girls find you so irresistible," Mark snickered.

"I thought it was the fact that I look like a model, I'm charming, and I can fuck like a champ."

"Hey," Mark said, "you know what? Maybe the girls just feel sorry for him, with that little worm he's got."

"Are you looking at it, Mark Golan, buddy?"

"Hell no."

"Then let's not get into talking sizes, because the evidence to refute your claim is right here."

Mark groaned. " _I'm_ the Chairman of the Honor Court, not you."

"Whatever. So, okay, we marked up his locker door, his room-"

"Great touch with his sweater," St. Esprit said. "I mean, that's the key thing, you know? Gotta fuck with a man's sweater if you wanna get to him."

"Yeah, well, I painted up his fucking locker door like you told me. And Long took care of his room door. The sweater was a nice extra. You know it was."

"Okay, guys," St. Esprit said. "LeBlanc made it easy for us with all the trouble he'd been in already. Long's gonna pass along what he saw, and I'll go by and tell them the same kind of thing."

"Think Colonel Fosse will buy it?"

"It's easy, because it's the truth," St. Esprit said. "There's no need for lies when the truth works just as well."

"And DiNozzo?" Marshall asked.

"Like I said, scare him. Maybe he'll run away or something. Otherwise I guess we can hear the fucking Marshall Plan this evening."

"Okay," Mark said.

"God," Marshall suddenly said, "I haven't had sex in _weeks!_ Can we please go on Thanksgiving break already?"

The other two boys cracked up, slapping Marshall on the back. As some of the other guys woke up and the highest-ranking boys in the Corps began their usual morning routine of mercilessly teasing each other- an excellent way to demonstrate how much you cared about someone- the problem created by DiNozzo and LeBlanc faded into the background somewhat. The guys all knew it was an issue they would have to handle. When LeBlanc was expelled today, HC would be put on his door. The word would go out: do what LeBlanc did and you'll get his reward.

And as for DiNozzo… Mark was interested to see how that situation played out. Marshall had not said much, but he wanted to do something besides just kick DiNozzo out. Given how opinion within the group was near-unanimous on getting rid of him, it would sure be interesting to see what Marshall had in mind.

 **XX**

Alex walked up to the first floor of Aubrey Hall with a sense of dread. He didn't look forward to facing his father after yesterday. Dad was going back to West Point today, but as he had planned to stay overnight in Tiverton, he was making a stop at Remington before he departed. It was supposed to have been a pleasant addition to a pleasant visit yesterday. DiNozzo had no right to have ruined it, or to have forced Alex into the unenviable position he was in now.

His father, The General, stood facing the windows in the meeting room Alex had been ordered to report to before breakfast. He wore his Class B greens, three stars on his shoulders. Alex walked in, snapped to attention and saluted. "Cadet Colonel St. Esprit, reporting as ordered, sir!"

Dad turned around. He stared hard at his son, leveling against him the same piercing gaze that had stared down countless men who had tried and failed to kill him in the jungles and rice paddies, the mountains and hillsides of Vietnam. His father, Alexander R. St. Esprit, II, had not been so lucky. A communist antiaircraft gun had shot down his Huey mobile command post in 1966, killing one of General William C. Westmoreland's most able commanders and most trusted classmates from West Point's Class of 1936.

Against that horrific pain and loss, Dad, then a young officer still learning his trade, had fought back with tremendous courage. He had spent years at war over there, and kept his nerve. He had kept his courage, his honor, his soul, through decades of service in the Army, doing what the St. Esprit family had done for generation after generation.

And Alex had let his father down, and that was shame beyond words.

"Do you realize what happened yesterday?" General St. Esprit asked quietly, but in a voice that carried so Alex heard every word. "Do you understand the position this puts me in? The Governors don't know if my own son can control the Corps of Cadets he commands. Alumni are asking me what the school's coming to. I find myself asking that question as well."

"I have the essay, sir," Alex said, still rigidly at attention, still holding the salute. "I have explained my failure and the actions I will take to correct the problem with my command."

"Let me see it," General St. Esprit said. He returned the salute, but let his son remain at attention. Alex stiffly took out the two pages of paper, unfolded them, and handed them over as his father approached. After a minute or two, General St. Esprit said, "All right. But you had better handle this, Alex. Get control of the situation. Use your influence. Never let this happen again. This will not be the last opportunity for the less-than-loyal to make trouble. We are at war, Alex, even if the politicians call it peace. The communists may attack in Europe at any moment. But every minute where they do not is a minute they spend trying to corrupt the soul of this country. You need to keep the situation under control here."

"I'll keep them in line, sir."

"Like you did yesterday."

"No, sir. I will do it effectively with no slip-ups, sir."

"I'm counting on it. Never again, Alex. _Never again_."

"It won't happen again, sir," Alex said. "I promise."

"See to it that it doesn't." Finally, the General said, "At ease."

Alex relaxed his posture, but only a little. Despite the trust and affection, he had always been afraid of his father, had always felt that he walked the earth with a heavy burden on his shoulders, the burden of knowing that the last three men to bear his name had all become generals, all had become West Pointers of great distinction, and two had received the Medal of Honor for extraordinary courage in the face of the impossible.

"Alex, I'm still proud of you. You're still my son. But I expect you to do better than you did yesterday. I know you can. All you have to do is handle this."

"I will, sir."

General St. Esprit smiled. "I'm counting on it. Come on. See me out to my car."

The two of them walked outside, and General St. Esprit returned the salute of his driver as he came down the steps towards the black Cadillac limousine.

"Tell Mom I love her," Alex said.

"I will, but make sure to tell her yourself when you come home for Thanksgiving."

"Yes, sir."

Alex hesitated, then embraced his father, allowing himself to briefly dispense with all the formalities and just tell his Dad he loved him. Through that hug, he tried to say that he was sorry, that he was proud to bear his father's name, that he was going to live his whole life trying to be even half as great as he was.

That DiNozzo had such disrespect for Alex and his family, for Alex's father- that was something to be pitied. DiNozzo had clearly been raised quite poorly. His father was surely a laughable excuse for a man. But he had crossed Alex's family and embarrassed Alex personally- and that was something that could not be allowed.

 **XX**

The morning started with the usual stuff. Getting up, hygiene, prepping the room, putting on the stupid Class B dress grays, and so on. But at the morning formation, at breakfast, Tony was surprised at how different everything suddenly was. No one seemed to want to talk to him. Most of the boys spoke around him in conversations, ignoring things he tried to interject with or comments he made. Long, the Alpha Company commander, barely gave Tony a glance, and Park ignored him as well. Collins barely did more than grunt if Tony talked to him.

Coach Tanner had been pretty annoyed about the big HC painted on Tony and Phelps' door. He'd called some people in school maintenance and they'd come up and painted it back over with the standard gray, and Tanner had talked to everyone about the importance of not vandalizing school property.

Last night, Tony had asked Piggy what the hell Honor Corps was. Between the fat boy's response and his talk with Coach Tanner as he made the call to Maintenance this morning, Tony was able to learn a few things.

They were the most feared and powerful cadets in the school, so the stories said. An elite and intensely secretive brotherhood, sworn to uphold the highest standards of the school. They defended tradition, and everything held sacred by the school's ideals. Coach Tanner said that, all the tall tales aside, the group was a kind of cadet fraternity- or maybe just a glorified gang.

Phelps, or Piggy as a lot of guys around here called him, said they were "Not a nice bunch of guys," and mostly left it at that, but Tony had prodded him to get more. They policed substandard cadets and kept things under control. Way back, they had formed to protect the school against communists, Japanese, and Nazis after Pearl Harbor had been bombed.

Getting selected for membership was supposed to be the highest honor a cadet could aspire to at Remington. The secrecy and the elite nature of the group was a big part of its allure, but Tanner pointed out that plenty of staff and cadets alike believed the group did not exist. It was just a bunch of stories made up to scare cadets. "And besides," Tanner said, "everybody loves a good story."

Tony, as disgusted as he was with the gang of bullies he was coming to notice called themselves the highest-ranked cadets at this school, wondered if they weren't even worse than that behind the scenes. Golan, in that little confrontation last night, had been firm in seeming to say that Honor Corps was real. St. Esprit seemed to believe him. That may have all been a show to scare Tony. But he wondered. That big HC on his locker door, on the back of his sweater, on his room door… none of that seemed like a made-up story. It looked damned serious.

At breakfast, he tried to spot LeBlanc, but the other boy didn't seem to be around. By the end of lunch, Tony had managed to find out that the kid had been shipped for committing one disciplinary violation too many. He'd had a bad record already, and the end of the line had come when he'd tried pranking General St. Esprit with the paint.

But another, more sinister rumor was making the rounds as well. That story held that LeBlanc had crossed a serious line by humiliating the Brigade Commander in front of his father, and by causing so much trouble on the day of the General's visit to the school. More than once, Tony heard someone speculate that Honor Corps had moved in and made sure the Commandant's Office made the decision to kick LeBlanc out. "HC" was found painted on his door an hour after LeBlanc's father came to the school and picked him up.

 **XX**

Heading downstairs amongst a crowd of other cadets, all jostling to get to the same social studies classes beneath the chapel, somebody shoved DiNozzo hard, sending him sprawling. He flung his arms out and caught his right on the railing, and hung on, his heart racing. He looked around, trying to find the assailant, but saw just gray uniforms and short haircuts. A few boys looked at him curiously. Someone laughed.

 **XX**

At lunch, a boy passing by in the crowded mess hall slapped the underside of Tony's tray with force, sending everything on it into the air. Tony was so startled that he completely missed the opportunity to retaliate. He didn't know the boy who did it, and he wasn't looking directly at him, wasn't paying attention to him until it was already too late, so there was no way of looking for him. It was like an explosion had taken place. Mixed vegetables, a cup of Jell-O, mashed potatoes and ham went everywhere, and a fair bit the stuff went straight into Tony's face and the front of his uniform.

It was the same as the incident on the stairs. A few boys laughed, some looked at him with brief interest, but nobody really did or said anything.

 **XX**

After getting another tray and rushing through the meal at lunch, Tony came back to his room and found it utterly destroyed. His things were everywhere, mixed in so thoroughly with Piggy's that it would take forever to sort it all out, which was probably the point.

It was not as if someone had yanked a few things off the shelves, or tossed the mattress off his bed. This was the work of someone who had done it a hundred times before. This was a professional job. Whoever had destroyed this room had taken it and made it look as if it were the inside of a well-shaken snowglobe, after all the little flakes had settled to the bottom of the water. A tornado could not have more thoroughly wrecked the room and thrown everything around.

Golan showed up with a pair of solemn-faced boys wearing the big black armband with white lettering indicating them as MPs just as Tony was surveying the full extent of the damage. He pointed to Tony. "Cadet DiNozzo, under orders from the Commandant of Cadets you are hereby placed under arrest. You are to accompany me to the office of the Commandant, Colonel Fosse, immediately. You-"

"This is some fine fucking work you did, Golan!" Tony shouted at him with sudden, explosive anger.

Golan calmly took out a pad with some kind of form on it. He marked a thing or two, wrote a thing or two. "Room in Disorder," Golan said. "Gross insubordination."

Then he looked at Tony and smiled.

"Are you coming to the Commandant's office or not, Cadet DiNozzo? If you refuse I will place you in this room under guard and the TAC officers will handle this. They're not all as patient as I am. I think you've met Gunny Ellison, and he's on duty down there right now."

"You son of a bitch," Tony said, shaking with rage. "You little-"

"Well?"

"Fine," Tony said. He stormed out of the room, or started to, but Golan held up a hand. "Not in that," he said. "Change that uniform on the double, mister."

Fuming, Tony yanked off his necktie and pulled at the collar of his shirt so hard it popped some of the buttons off. Golan laughed, and one of the MPs chuckled. Tony quickly put his nametag on another gray Class B shirt he pulled off a coat hanger, buttoned it and tucked it in. He pulled a necktie off the piles of stuff and put it on, tying it in a decent half-Windsor knot.

"That'll do," Golan said. "Let's go."

 **XX**

Once they reached the first floor of Aubrey Hall, Golan dismissed the MPs and stood there in the hallway outside the office. It was an old building, and it looked like someone with only a ruler and not a lot of free space had designed it. Well, the main hallway had space. Room in the offices seemed to have been sacrificed so the entrance hall behind those big white doors would look nice and impressive.

There were old pictures of the school and its cadets, some brass trophies, a whole Class A uniform with medals and cadet colonel's diamonds and the nametag St. Esprit in a case hung on the wall. Tastefully decorated, this quiet, austere place was the headquarters of the school and was designed to make a good first impression. Along one wall in the hallway Golan and St. Esprit stood in was a series of portraits. They were big, several feet high and wide, and each one was a distinguished-looking old white guy in a uniform. Each one had a brass plate fixed to the bottom center of the gold-painted frame stating the name, rank, and two years with a dash in between.

"Heads of the school," Golan said.

"I figured that out," Tony snapped.

Golan shrugged.

At the end of the hall, through the windows of the closed door, Tony saw light. Peering, he spotted glass cases, tall ones. Medals, loads of them, displayed in groups under the lights behind the glass.

"The Hall of Honor," Golan said. "If you want to know about better men than you, that's the place. But I wouldn't go there if I were you. It's not a place you belong."

"Maybe this whole school is that."

"Even you can be right sometimes. Amazing."

"Shut the fuck up."

Golan shrugged again.

General Blake emerged through the door that led downstairs, the one opposite the front doors. He turned left and Golan said, "Atten-shun!"

Golan drew himself perfectly to the position of attention. After hesitating, Tony followed him.

"At ease," Blake said. "Mr. Golan, I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time. Colonel Fosse is on the phone, but he'll be with Mr. DiNozzo in a minute."

"I dismissed the MP detail, sir," Golan said. "I should stay with him since he's under arrest."

"Captain Tanner will be here in just a minute," Blake replied. "In spite of what happened yesterday I think we can trust Mr. DiNozzo to remain here on his honor."

Golan looked like he disagreed, but he said, "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. On to my office, then, Mr. Golan." He headed further down the hall, opened a door, and headed in.

Before following him, Golan leaned in and whispered to Tony. He did it so suddenly that the brown-haired teen didn't have time to flinch or push him away. Golan just leaned in and said in a quiet voice, "I hope you had fun yesterday, because I'm gonna get you, DiNozzo. I'm gonna get you and there's nothing you can do about it."

Then he walked down the hall after General Blake, turned right, and headed in.

 **XX**

Colonel Thomas G. Fosse, nicknamed "Fussy" by the cadets for his precise, detail-oriented manner as much as for his name, was a tall, lean man with graying brown hair. As he got up and summoned Tony into his office, Tony got a look at the immaculate green Class B uniform he was wearing, the rows of ribbons and the silver eagles adorning each shoulder and either side of his collar. Fosse's office walls were lined with neatly-filled bookshelves, framed diplomas with not a speck of dust on them, and pictures of exotic places where the colonel had presumably been during his Army career.

"Mr. DiNozzo," he said, shaking hands, "Colonel Thomas Fosse. Please, have a seat."

Tony sat down in one of the two armchairs placed in front of the Colonel's desk. It was loaded with paperwork, and a green garrison cap with a silver colonel's eagle was sitting on top of one pile in the OUT tray.

Fosse didn't say anything after he sat down. He just stared at DiNozzo, which was somehow worse than anything he could have said. The silence went on and on. Just when Tony was about to break the silence himself, Fosse said, "You're in some trouble, Mr. DiNozzo."

"Am I?" Tony asked, keeping his voice light and careless, expressing a cavalier attitude he didn't entirely feel at the moment.

"You are," Fosse confirmed. "I'm afraid you and Mr. LeBlanc were both seen in your antics yesterday. Veteran's Day is a day you may not be used to taking seriously, Mr. DiNozzo, but we at Remington-"

"Skip to the part I care about," Tony said. He wasn't up for this guy's games. If they were kicking him out he wanted it to happen already.

Fosse stopped and looked at him. The silence resumed. After a full minute, he said again, "You're in some trouble, Mr. DiNozzo."

"Is that right?"

"Your attitude is quite central to that."

"So I've heard."

"Try adding a "Sir" to that, mister," Fosse said, picking up a pen.

"So I've heard, _sir_ ," Tony said.

"Mr. DiNozzo, I am well aware of your history prior to coming to this school. It is not one we normally wish to associate ourselves with. Six prior schools in the past four years and not a good word from one of them." Fosse nodded. "Yes, I spend quite a bit of time on the phone when it concerns a special case like yourself. You see, here at Remington that's one of the things that we teach. Giving it the whole nine yards when it's anything that's worth doing. And I get an application for a boy who clearly makes it a habit of getting kicked out of his boarding schools- I'm not about to just let him in, no matter how charming his father may sound."

Tony gave a derisive laugh. "I knew he wouldn't bother to show his face at this dump."

"That's _enough_ , Mr. DiNozzo," Fosse ordered, his lean face set in stone. "I am not paid to sit here and listen to your wisecracks. General Blake is a patient and understanding man. His recommendation-" Fosse suddenly looked up and smiled. "Gerald, I'm glad you could join me. Please, come on."

"Always a pleasure, Thomas," a familiar deep voice rumbled. Tanner walked into the room, dressed in Class B greens himself, but with no ribbons and three silver dots instead of one eagle on each of his shoulders. He sat down in the other chair in front of Fosse's desk.

"Through his extraordinary powers of negotiation," Fosse said, "Captain Tanner has convinced me to stay your execution." He chuckled. "Sorry, not entirely appropriate given the gravity of your situation. But- not untrue, either. So, yes. We let you in despite some misgivings. It seems like you want to prove to us that we made a mistake in doing so. What I brought you here to ask you, DiNozzo, is, if you are expelled from this, your seventh high school- a feat you are quite close to achieving by the middle of your first week here, I might add- where will you go next? Does your father have an eighth school lined up and ready to go?"

"Not exactly," Tony grumbled.

"I didn't think so. Your father seemed to hope that, with our reputation, we would be able to do what the others had failed to. In my call to him this morning he seemed quite frustrated. He was not expecting you to be dismissed this quickly."

"Am I being dismissed?" Tony asked.

"You're close to it." Fosse tapped the pen on his desk. "Gerald?"

"Some people are very unhappy with what happened yesterday, DiNozzo, and I mean alumni, parents… General St. Esprit is a highly respected man and what you and LeBlanc did was extremely embarrassing to his son, and thus to him. I believe you should stay here, DiNozzo, but you're making it hard on those of us that want to make that happen."

"So what?"

"This is your last year of high school," Fosse said. "Somehow you've stayed on track to graduation despite changing schools so many times. If you don't graduate from here… where will you graduate from? If not here, where? How many more schools is it going to take?"

"Why do you even care, man?"

"I care," Fosse replied, "because it is my job to care. I care because I am paid to care. My job is handling disciplinary matters, to be the boss of all the TACs and security staff we have here. But when I get a young man who is trying to get expelled and has a history of getting expelled, it's my concern because I am not paid to stand by and watch that young man burn his own life down because he feels like it."

Tony didn't say anything. He just sat there, not sure what the hell he wanted to do or say now.

"You owe Colonel Fosse a lot of tours," Tanner said. "But I convinced him to let you start Friday."

"Assuming I make it that far," Tony replied.

"That decision is in your hands," Fosse said. "You think about it, Mr. DiNozzo. Good morning."

 **XX**

After being shoved into a locker twice between classes and getting gum stuck in his hair, Tony decided he'd better go and try talking to Golan. The guy seemed to be a big player around here, and not just in being the brigade XO. Piggy mentioned that Golan liked to hang out in the Shark's Lair, the cadet officer's club, in the first floor of Blakefield Hall barracks.

After classes ended, Tony went to the Shark's Lair straight away. Sure enough, Golan was there, talking with Long and a few other boys Tony didn't recognize. Park was there, too, shooting pool with some cadet major and a cadet first lieutenant. They all noticed Tony walking in, and a boy called out, "You can't come in here."

"I wanna talk to Golan," Tony said.

"Go get some rank and then come back," the major cracked, and the cadet officers all laughed.

"Oh, whatever, let him in," Golan said, waving a hand. "Give us a minute, Long. Take the LTs with you."

"You got it," Long said, and he and the other boys accompanying him went over to the color TV sitting in front of three different couches and switched it on. They soon started arguing over what channel to watch, while Park and the boys he was playing pool with resumed their banter over the game.

Golan had his gray garrison cap in hand, and had a small rag out and some Brasso. He resumed polishing the two silver diamonds mounted on the forward end of one side of the cap. "You got some nerve walking in here uninvited," he said. "What do you want?"

"We should make a deal or something."

Golan looked up at him, expressionless, then resumed polishing the two diamonds. "Too late."

"I know you're in that group," Tony said.

"What group?"

"Honor Corps."

"There's no Honor Corps."

"Then why'd you tell Supreme Commander they'd "deal with" me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, DiNozzo. You sound paranoid."

"Look, what do you guys want?"

Golan looked up again, and while his face was blank, his stare was cold. "You, out of our school."

"Maybe I'd rather stay."

Golan gave a contemptuous laugh. "I don't care."

"Come on. My Dad's in Europe and if I get kicked out-"

"I don't care. Did you miss that?"

"Look-"

"Fuck you, DiNozzo," Golan said. "Beat it."

"Well, at least let me punch you in the face first," Tony burst out, louder than he meant to. Park's group and Long's group turned around, and a group of cadet officers running in, seeming to be having a race or something, skidded to a halt.

But Golan looked interested now. He stood up. "Are you _challenging_ me?"

"You bet I am," Tony said.

"Boxing match?" Golan asked.

"If you're not too scared. And I get to stay here if you lose."

Golan laughed. He raised his voice and addressed the rest of the room. "It's been two years since I've been challenged!"

Park whistled and the other boys clapped, whooped and cheered. Tony stared at them, wondering again if they weren't all crazy. Golan, meanwhile, turned back to Tony and said, "I look forward to reminding people why."

 **XX**

Basketball practice was the only thing Tony liked about Remington Military Academy, the only part of it he wanted more of. The team, consisting of varsity, junior varsity, and middle school players, numbered more than thirty in total and had six coaches, one for each team, with Tanner being head of the whole show as well as lead, and three assistant coaches.

"Good to have you back," Marshall said as Tony arrived for practice. He offered his hand and Tony shook it. "Hurry up and get changed. We're gonna put you through your paces today, see how you do. I want to see your best, you got me? Give it all you got and maybe you won't get shot at dawn tomorrow."

"Who was gonna shoot me at dawn?"

"A firing squad arranged on orders from Sergeant Major Ambrose," the redhead said with a grin. "You're in one of his classes, you have to have heard him say that. Anybody who does this, that, or the other thing will be shot at dawn."

"Why dawn?"

"Military efficiency," Marshall said. "Blow your brains out first thing in the morning so we all get it over with."

"Oh, can I sign up for that? Your brother recommended it."

"Actually, he recommended doing it yourself."

"Boys, gather round!" Tanner called out, his voice booming across the cavernous space of the basketball gym. "Move yourselves, all teams, move and gather around me! Marshall, DiNozzo, stop planning your next date and get moving!"

 **XX**

The basketball team had boys from every company, and it was a surprising relief that they didn't seem influenced by much of the frostiness, even hostility, that had suddenly turned against Tony starting today. Some of them were a little distant or found excuses to avoid talking with Tony, but that may just have been his imagination.

Christian Marshall, the captain, was amazing. Lean, muscular and energetic, he moved fast and talked fast, and on the court he could clearly think fast, too. The more intense a game was, the harder his side was pressed, the happier Marshall seemed to become. Mouthing off to the coaches could earn pushups, but Tony noticed that Marshall would do it on purpose, just so he could be told to do some. He pushed buttons but only up to a point, and the coaches, by the way they reacted to his antics, were clearly used to Marshall and the way he behaved.

Because tryouts had long since ended, Tony was the only one earning his place on the team, so many of the boys ragged on him and gave him grief for being new. Tony used a generic team uniform, one featuring no number or last name on the back, and some of the boys called him "Null" or "Noodle," a play on his name. "DiNoodle" emerged as they improved it, and Tony protesting only made them say it more.

Tanner was a relentless drillmaster, and from the way he circulated amongst the teams in the enormous gymnasium and gave direction to them and their coaches at appropriate moments, he could have been a circus ringmaster instead of a basketball coach in Tony's opinion. His deep, impressive voice could be heard anywhere in the gym, and if he shouted for everyone to stop, the command was noticed immediately. He criticized the boys constantly, but he also offered praise and encouragement. Tony, to his chagrin, learned he'd been doing a couple things wrong for years, but was able to correct himself and start getting used to the new method. Tanner seemed impressed by how Tony did during the games, and the problems he had off the court seemed far away as long as he was out there, racing around and hearing the thud of the ball and the squeak of boys' shoes under the blazing lights.

Marshall, as the varsity captain, was effectively the highest-ranked member of the basketball team, and he would disappear for periods so he could help out with the middle schoolers, who seemed delighted whenever he joined them. Actually, all the teams did. It was like a celebrity showed up whenever Marshall rotated to a new team. Tony found himself envying how fit the boy was. How did he even have shoulders like that? And it honestly looked like he had a six-pack chiseled into his abdomen. Tony looked good and knew he did, but this kid might just show him up if they went to the beach together.

Maybe. It wasn't like Tony was just gonna give him that kind of credit. This Marshall kid clearly thought he was the biggest ladies' man in this school. Tony began considering just how he'd prove him wrong.

 **XX**

Towards the end of practice, when Tony was sitting out and watching the game, arms resting on his knees as he caught his breath, Marshall came over and sat down beside him. "That was pretty good today. Not as good as me, but good."

"You haven't seen anything yet," Tony promised.

Marshall laughed. "You should take it easy, man. You're doing good here but elsewhere… you're making things hard on yourself."

"I know."

"So stop," Marshall said, lowering his voice. "Make it easy on yourself."

"What are you, my babysitter? My Dad or something?"

Marshall held up his hands, frowning a little. "Hey, man, cool it. I'm not the bad guy here. And I told you: you better get used to me and my face because you're gonna see 'em both a lot if you wanna play basketball here."

Tony didn't immediately reply, and they both sat there a few minutes, watching the two JV teams that Coach Franklin had picked out.

"They're not very happy with you."

Tony started. "What?"

"You embarrassed them. They're angry about that."

"Who?"

"The guys who painted the shit on your locker door, and your room door, and drew on your sweater."

"Honor Corps?" Tony asked.

"Those are the guys."

"I'm not scared of them."

"If I were you, DiNozzo, maybe I would be."

"So you're scared of them?"

"I keep my head down and my nose clean. I stay out of trouble." Marshall shrugged. "Well, except for girls. Then I go looking for it."

"Oh, you, too?"

Marshall laughed. "I bet I've got more notches on my belt than you, DiNozzo."

"How do I know that?"

"I give you my word of honor."

Tony laughed. "Really?"

"Really." The red-haired boy stretched his arms over his head, then brought them back down again. "By the way, it was eight cheerleaders on the team I got in one year, not twelve. People exaggerate. The legend is getting bigger than the man."

"Something sure isn't getting bigger."

Marshall laughed again. "Oh, yeah, you're funny, wise guy. So you gonna box Golan or what?"

"What? How do you know about that?"

The redhead looked at him almost pityingly.

"Oh," Tony said. "What, did he tell everyone?"

"You had about a dozen guys there when Golan said you challenged him. I'd be surprised if the entire school didn't know. I mean, they're not all gonna be there, but- nobody's officially challenged Golan to box in a while." Marshall grinned and rubbed his hands together. "I got money riding on this, so you bet I'll be there."

"You do?"

"Yeah, a lot of guys throw down some allowance money when something like this happens. It's a chance to boost your income. Or try to get back what you lost last time. I mean, it's against the rules around here but we're not supposed to set up boxing matches like that, per se. But they let us use the ring down in the weight room when the room's open."

"Is Golan really that good?" Tony asked.

"One of the best at this school," Marshall answered. He got up. "Good luck at the match. Don't drop the soap in the showers."

A moment later Tanner blew his whistle, and called the teams together. After a few more comments and a briefing on tomorrow's scheduled practice, Tanner dismissed everyone, and they crowded into the locker room.

As Tony pulled his sweaty jersey over his head and approached his locker, he noticed that a lot of guys were crowded around it. He pushed his way through and saw it painted on the new one he'd moved to, 253. In red letters just like last time: **HC**.

 **XX**

The boxing match was set up in a corner of the weight room, and normally it was just one part of a busy and noisy room during the free time before study hall started. But after word passed that the newcomer and the brigade XO were going to go head-to-head in a match, a lot of guys showed up just to see the game.

Mark Golan was already there, lazily standing in one corner, talking with Marshall, Park, D'Arbanville and St. Esprit. When he caught sight of Tony, he called out, "Well, look who it is! The girliest boy in school!"

A few boys laughed. Tony just strode resolutely to the ring, climbed under the ropes, and started pulling off his winter PTs. Once he was down to his uniform shorts and t-shirt, Tony stood and faced Golan, who had two feet planted on the padded floor of the ring and was smiling confidently at him.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," Golan remarked, and Tony realized he meant more than just the boxing match.

"Trying to scare me?"

"You're already scared."

"Nah, man," St. Esprit said, "he's a wop. Wops are too dumb to understand fear." He caught Tony's glare and grinned in return. Tony felt momentarily annoyed and ashamed, realizing he'd let the other boy provoke a reaction.

When Tony looked back at Golan, the other boy reached down and slowly pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his buff upper body. He met Tony's gaze as he tossed the uniform shirt aside, that smug, confident look still on his face.

Tony responded by doing an exaggerated imitation of what Golan had just done, provoking some chuckling and guffaws. Golan didn't change his expression at all. He just laced up his gloves.

Marshall climbed into the middle of the ring. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and morons, I give you Tony DiNozzo! Someone toss him his gloves for Chrissakes!"

Somebody threw a pair of red boxing gloves in, and Tony barely caught them before they would have hit him in the face.

"And in the other corner, Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Mark Golan!"

A bunch of boys whooped and cheered. The blond prick had a little group of fans, all right. Tony noticed with some discomfort that more boys seemed to be cheering for the brigade XO than they were for him.

"This is a match a bunch of us broke rules to bet on," Marshall said as the two fighters approached each other. "So fight like you mean it."

"That won't be a problem," Golan said, looking at Tony with disgust.

"Yeah, sure," Tony replied.

"The rules are these: no hits below the belt, no use of the feet or legs for attacks. If there's something else, whatever, who cares? Let's go. On my mark, boys."

Tony braced himself, getting ready to go.

"Three! Two! One!" Marshall blew a whistle and brought his arm down, backing out of the ring.

Stepping forward, Tony moved in to swing first, but Golan was faster. One gloved fist shot out and struck Tony in the jaw, snapping his head back. The next blow was to his chest, and Tony staggered backward, trying to trade space for time.

"Yeah! Yeah!" a boy shouted.

"Get 'im, Gollum!"

"Take him down!"

Tony lashed out and scored a hit, but Golan just brushed it off. He punched Tony again and again, then backed away, motioning for him to adHalverson. The moment Tony did, he took a powerful blow to the chest. He managed to stay on his feet and began trying to block, but it didn't go as well as he'd hoped.

"Don't look at my hands!" Golan said suddenly. "Don't look there! Look at my shoulders! That's where the hits are coming from!"

Tony tried that, but Golan continued to strike at him, brushing off and blocking Tony's attacks. Tony landed some hits now and then, but he hadn't had the practice at this that Golan had, and the difference showed. Golan feinted left and struck from the right, and Tony was retreating again.

"You remember what I said?" Golan said, his eyes alive with a kind of savage glee.

"I don't even remember what day of the week it is," Tony gasped out.

Golan laughed. "Funny." He punched Tony again.

Tony spent a minute or two moving around, focusing on blocking and trying to watch how Golan moved. He was good, no question of that, and his reflexes were outstanding. He seemed to sense what Tony was going to do just as Tony thought of it. But Tony watched and started to think of how to imitate some of his movements, and at a moment when Golan paused to talk, Tony shot a fist out and hit Golan right in the face, then followed up with a blow to the chest.

The blond staggered back, surprise plain on his face, and Tony threw himself into the attack. He launched a flurry of blows, striking again and again while Golan was still caught off guard. The other boy fell back, and shouts of surprise came from some of the spectators.

Golan tripped and stumbled to the left, and that was when he retaliated. While Tony took a moment to enjoy himself, Golan gathered himself and hit back, and the rapid-fire series of hits Tony was subjected to drove him back and made him trip over himself. Golan planted a foot on his chest and grinned.

"And that's the match," he said.

Marshall blew his whistle. "All right, guys, that's it! I give you our reigning champion, Mark Golan!"

Boys all around them cheered, and money was traded between some of the spectators. Marshall collected money from a couple boys, then gave money to a few others. Tony couldn't even tell who the redhead had bet on. It seemed like he'd decided to handle bets with or for a couple guys.

Tony lay there on the mat, dazed, and Golan stared down at him unsympathetically. "Thanks for the exercise, Tony," Golan said sarcastically. "I love boxing."

"So what?" Tony demanded, struggling to his feet. "You think you're gonna teach me so I know what's good for me? Huh? Gonna teach me something? You can't make me do _shit_!"

Golan looked at him, amused. "Whatever you say, DiNozzo."

He left the ring and walked away with his friends. The other boys soon turned back to lifting weights, and Tony was left by himself.

 **XX**

Travis Phelps, nicknamed "Piggy" for his poor shape and weight, hurried toward the barracks, hoping they'd forgotten him this time. He'd been told to be at the basketball gym after study hall ended, but no one had been there. They always seemed to do this to him when he needed sleep and rest the most. Just as Travis thought he'd made it, they surrounded him, seeming to come out of nowhere.

There were a bunch of them, about ten if Travis had counted right in past encounters. It was dark and they wore their garrison caps low over their eyes. Their nametags had been removed and pocketed, and they surrounded him, converging all at once as he made a doomed, pitiful effort at hurrying on towards the barracks.

"The gym," the one in front said simply. "Hurry up, Piggy. About-face. Let's go."

"We better hurry, guys," a boy said with mock concern. "Now, if we're not careful, Fat Ass here could be late."

The boys chuckled.

"Don't worry about it, Piggy," a boy to his left said. "It's nothing personal."

That brought chuckles, and a heavyset, strong-looking boy to Travis' right enthusiastically curled his left hand into a fist, punching it into his palm. "It is with me. I _like_ making you miserable. It's fun."

"Look at 'im," another boy said in a soft-spoken, almost effeminate drawl. "Goddamn fat slob in a uniform. No way would he have made it in the old Corps."

Finally, the boy standing directly in front of Travis pointed towards the gym. "You gonna go yourself, or you want us to keep you an extra hour?"

Travis turned and started walking himself. He knew there was no choice here. It was go, or be forced to go. That was what they offered him.

 **XX**

There was nobody in the gym's basketball court; the wood-floored room was completely dark. Travis was escorted to the center of the room, told to stand at attention, and the boys left him suddenly. Their footsteps faded away and Travis could see nothing in the darkness. Even when his eyes adjusted he couldn't. They'd taken his glasses.

Footsteps off to the right, to the left, behind him. A few, many all at once, then nothing. A smacking sound, something hard hitting the wooden floor.

Two boys approached him, and from behind, one called out, "What's wrong, little Piggy? Can't you read rank? Salute the Commandant!"

The moment Travis rendered a salute, the gym exploded. The lights were thrown on, blinding him, but he could've sworn he saw the boys standing around all shielding their eyes, caps still low over their faces. Then the lights went off again and they charged, shouting and screaming, and as they circled like wolves surrounding prey, one kept a flashlight jabbed right in Travis' face.

Then it stopped. Flashlights snapped off, the footsteps of dress shoes fading into the dark.

A boy stood right in front of him, holding a rifle of metal and wood in his hands at port arms. Travis felt a terrible sense of dread, knowing this was just the beginning.

The boy addressed Travis, speaking in a low, urgent voice, his words coming rapidfire. "Say what I say, mister. This is a Smith-Carona-manufactured, thirty-aught-six caliber, Model 1903A3 Springfield rifle made in 1944."

Stuttering, struggling to remember all the words and say them in order, Travis managed to repeat it.

"This weapon weighs 8.0 pounds empty, 8.5 pounds fully loaded, 9.5 pounds when fitted with a M1903 bayonet."

Travis stammered some more, straining to say the words back, but he finally did it.

The boy threw him the rifle, and by simple, panicked reaction and nothing else Travis managed to catch it.

"Port arms!" the boy shouted, and Travis did it.

"Right-shoulder arms!" shouted another.

"Left shoulder, arms!"

"Order arms!"

" _Pre_ -sent arms!"

At first Travis was able to keep up, but they simply quickened their pace. Multiple boys shouted different commands at once. It went on, going faster and faster, Travis breaking into a sweat as he tried to do the impossible and keep up. It went on until the inevitable happened- Travis' arms, never especially strong, were simply unable to hold the Springfield any longer. He dropped it, one of the boys catching it just as the metal butt plate hit the floor.

That was all it took. They were on him. They swarmed in, screaming and yelling again, and this time one command rose clearly above the noise.

"Drop! _Drop_ , you faggot!"

"I said fucking _drop_!"

"You piece of shit, this is _school property_!"

"Pushups! Pushups! _Do it now_!"

As Travis went into the front leaning rest position and started to push, a boy stood near him and planted his shoe between Travis' shoulder-blades. It was the rapid-fire speaker again, but this time he had one word, emphasized as he applied pressure to the planted shoe.

" _Down_."

They took nearly an hour.

 **XX**

When it finally ended, Travis was about to throw up. He was gasping and sweating, and he could feel the menace and hatred emanating from the figures standing there around him.

"Pathetic," one of them said. "Fucking pathetic. Get lost, Piggy."

"You're lucky this isn't the old days. Back then…" the boy snickered. "Yeah. You're fucking lucky."

"You better lose some fucking weight, boy or the Corps is gonna be after you all year." The boy speaking stepped closer. "All fucking year, fatass. Looking forward to it? I am. We make men here but I'm not sure you'll ever qualify."

"Yes, sir."

"Shut up," another boy told him. "Get lost."

Travis took the opportunity and gratefully got the hell out of there. He struggled to make it to the water fountain outside the door, where he drank water until he almost puked again. Then he did puke, in the trash can a few feet away. Then it was back to the water fountain. Once he was done, and he could finally breathe again, Travis somehow worked up the nerve to turn on the gymnasium lights and look.

They were gone, of course. They had vanished just as suddenly as they had appeared.

 **XX**

Just before "Taps" sounded, Marshall made his way down to the TAC Office with a guitar case in his hand. He walked in and set it down, then stood at parade rest before Master Gunnery Sergeant Aaron Moore, the Assistant Commandant, and Gunnery Sergeant Ellison.

"The hell you want, Marshall?" Ellison demanded.

"I wanna sing the school song over the intercom before Haglund plays "Taps", Gunnery Sergeant."

"Nobody gives a fuck about your damn guitar, now get outta here, I'm tired of seeing your face!" Ellison replied.

"Gunny," Marshall said solemnly, "a lot of people say that. Especially my ex-girlfriends. Why do I keep getting kicked out of bedrooms, and living rooms, and cars, and cheap motel rooms, and-"

"Goddamn it, go on and play your fuckin' song, you stupid son of a bitch!"

"Thanks, Gunny," Marshall said with a grin, opening his guitar case and taking out the beautiful West Virginia-made guitar Golan had gotten for him last year. Moore smiled, and Ellison briefly cracked one, too. Having both met and served with the elder Marshalls in their days in the Marine Corps, these two men thought highly of the red-haired cadet sergeant major, but being who he was, Ellison wasn't about to admit it. If he hated you and if he liked you, his way of communicating was the bringing of pain and suffering and the endless dispensing of insults.

Sitting down inside the booth that was used when cadets did broadcasts over the PA system during the day, Marshall strung a few notes, adjusted the guitar's strings a little, and cleared his throat. Then he pressed the intercom button.

"Good evening, girls, this is your brigade sergeant major speaking. Have you ever been in love with a celebrity? Someone so out of reach, but so stunning you just can't say no? Come on, don't be shy. I feel it between us, too." He chuckled, then said, "Okay, boys. I'm gonna sing the school song, Waltzing Matilda. This one is for you."

 _Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong_

 _Under the shade of a coolibah tree_

 _And he sang as he watched and waited 'till his billy boiled_

" _You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me"_

 _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda_

 _You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me_

 _He sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled_

" _You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me!_

With years of practice at playing and singing and a natural talent for both, Marshall easily made his way through the rest of the song. It had become the school song after a startling number of RMA graduates, enlisted and commissioned officers alike, had served in the 1st Marine Division during World War II. Like the 1st Marines, they brought the song home with them, and ever since Remington had honored and cherished that particular part of its history. Marshall sang with something akin to joy, singing a song that had decades of history with the Corps of Cadets and with the Marine Corps, a song he loved.

Really, what wasn't there to love with a song about an unnamed swagman who committed suicide by drowning in a lake after being caught stealing a sheep as he waited for his billy to boil? It was a story about a man who died rather than give in to rules he obviously thought were bullshit. He lived and died the way he chose, and that was freedom in its simplest form.

In the swagman, Marshall saw the I-don't-give-a-shit defiance the Marines had always shown their enemies. You could kill Marines, but you couldn't make them care.

Once he'd sung the last note, Marshall played the last few notes on his guitar and then spoke into the microphone, "All right, boys, that's it. I've bought you a few minutes. Stand by for 'Taps'."

He smiled to himself and stood, packing up his guitar. There was another piece of business to take care of. Upstairs, he had a meeting with his brothers, and a sales pitch to make while he was attending it. He was confident in his ability to charm and logically persuade the other nine of the school's finest that his idea was worth the trouble. That was assuming that idiot even stayed… but Long, sharp eye that he was, had promised to sneak out of the barracks and keep an eye on the parking lot for an hour after 'Taps' sounded.

DiNozzo had seemed interested when some guys had been talking during basketball practice about that weird French car Coach Tanner drove, and how he never seemed to keep it locked. So Marshall had asked a favor and assigned Long, a sharp and duty-minded boy who was well in the running for Honor Corps membership next year, to keep an eye on the lot. After today, if he was gonna run, chances were good DiNozzo would try it tonight. If he did, the Corps would know. And if he didn't, they would know. Either way, Marshall knew they would win. They always did.

 **XX**

Tony hung back in the shadows near the bottom of the main stairwell for Hull barracks, backpack in his hand. He'd stuffed it with some 'provisions'- basic toiletries and some food he'd managed to get out of the mess hall and buy from the vending machines. He was about done with this place. Its creepy secret gang of cadets was the last straw. He would have hated it anyway, but it seemed like there probably was some secret outfit around here, and Tony didn't need any more excuse to pack it up and fuck off. He was just preempting what was coming anyway. He was finished around here, so better to leave while the getting was good.

Keeping his head down, Tony made his way down to Lansing Road and kept down behind the brick wall that held the lawn back, preventing erosion from drifting dirt into the street. No one could see him from the barracks, and he knew just where that funny little French car that Coach Tanner drove was parked. If those guys had been telling the truth, it was a decent chance the car would be unlocked, and that would speed up the process of getting the fuck out of here. Tony had never tried to hotwire a car made in France before, but how much different could it be?

The perks of getting to play basketball were nowhere near enough to stay. Tony didn't like this school. He had never fit in well at a military school, yet here he was, stuck at yet another one, with the same tight-assed system and the same stupid rules. It was time to fuck off and try something new.

Come on, come on. Having to stay low and creep along just in case he had to freeze or drop suddenly was agonizing. Tony wanted to jump up and run, but he didn't dare do that. The teenager knew he had to play this smart, or he'd never get his plan of escape into action.

 _Just a little longer_ …

Finally, after what had seemed like hours, but the wristwatch said was only ten minutes, Tony made it to the weird French car. It was shaped like aerodynamics had been the whole point, yet Coach had said it was just a sedan. It sat low to the ground and certainly didn't have much in common with the Mercury Grand Marquis that was parked to the left, big, square and imposing as that white car was.

Fuck the color, Tony thought as he crept up to the French car. I need a ride and this is it. He reached up and tried the front passenger door, careful to keep out of sight. His heart thudded in his chest. It had to work. He hadn't come this far only to be denied at the last moment. Tony pulled, and the door opened with a slight squeak. The noise made Tony freeze in place, but when nothing happened, he opened the door enough so he could get in, then dropped his bag and slid over to the passenger side.

Then Tony dug out his carefully-hidden set of tools and spent a nerve-wracking couple of minutes trying to figure out which set of wires below and ahead of the steering wheel was for the ignition. Tony cut one wire before finding the one he needed on the second try. He stripped some of the coating off, and pressed the two pieces of exposed copper together.

Rrrr… Rrrr…

"Come on, come on."

He let go, tried it again.

Rrrr… Rrrr…

 _This piece of crap car_.

Knock, knock, knock!

Tony sat up and looked to his right. Coach Tanner had just rapped his knuckles on the front passenger door window.

"Damn!" Tony sighed, more disappointed than angry or scared.

Tanner opened the door, got in and sat down, closing the door behind him.

"So what's the plan here? Steal the Coach's car, drive to Mexico?"

"Hey, maybe. Don't belong here. Not a rules and regulations guy."

"So your dad sends you to school number seven, it don't right, you cut and run," Tanner replied. "But for how long?" He paused. "You have an opportunity here. You have talent on the basketball court. You're smart. You don't like rules and regulations? Me neither. You gonna let that stop you?"

"It's self-preservation," Tony said, admitting some of the fear he'd felt earlier.

"You worried about Cadet Golan?"

"He hates me. He runs Honor Corps. It's only a matter of time."

"Honor Corps won't touch you." The black man said it with confidence, such great confidence. Tony wasn't so ready to believe.

"How do you know that?"

"Because you're a starter on the varsity basketball team, DiNozzo," Tanner replied, "and I look out for my guys. Now, there are things about this school that are gonna change. Honor Corps's one of them. This is a good place. You do belong. Don't run. Take a stand. And I'll stand with you."

Tony sat there behind the wheel of the car, not sure what to say. He was about to say something when the back right door of the car opened, and someone else got in and shut the door behind them. Both Tony and the Coach turned around.

"Hello, DiNozzo. Sir."

It was Marshall. The jokester and ladies' man was gone. Instead, there was a serious young man, looking between his coach and one of his players.

Tanner didn't even seem surprised. "You're out of bounds, Mr. Marshall," he said.

"So is DiNozzo, sir," Marshall said, briefly cracking a smile. "I didn't see it stop him."

"You saw me?" Tony asked.

"You could say that. I took a minute to make my mind up but I figured I should head out here."

"What for?" Tony asked him.

"I don't know if you noticed or not, DiNozzo," Marshall said, "but I love this school. I love the guys here. I don't expect you to do that. It's fine if this school ain't your favorite place in the world. But you're too good a basketball player for me to just let you leave without saying something to you first. And I think there's a cadet in you somewhere. Even if you don't believe it."

"Look, Marshall, you met me two days ago. Why do you even give a shit?"

"I'm doing my job. I try to help people here. I can help you. You're a good player. Give me and Coach a chance and we'll make you a great one. It's a hard school sometimes, but give it a shot and we'll help you get through it. It's a year, DiNozzo. Less than a year. Just see it through and you'll have that diploma and you'll be out of here. I guarantee you it can happen."

Tanner looked Tony. "What's been making this so hard is that you don't have any friends. Not here, anyway, and sounds like your dad's not the best friend you've ever had either. You need allies. People who will stand with you. I'll do that."

"I will, too," Marshall promised.

"I'm on the team?" Tony asked.

"If you want to be," Tanner answered. "Yes. You are."

Tony sat there for almost a minute, not saying a word. Then he sighed and said, "I cut some of these wires trying to hotwire the car, Coach."

"So I saw."

"Sorry about that."

"This thing's old and if you stole it I'd just get something better," Tanner said, chuckling. "But I'll get that fixed and I won't tell anybody who did it. I'll just say I lost my keys and got desperate."

"Yeah, they'll believe that."

"Doesn't matter even if they think I'm lying. The mechanic's not gonna know it was you, and that's what counts."

"Coach has your back, DiNozzo," Marshall said. "He means it. He looks out for every one of us."

"So, what happens now?"

"Remember what Fosse said this morning?" Tanner asked. "That decision is in your hands. Make the call."

Tony thought it over, and he was tempted to say screw it and go anyway. But finally he said, "I guess I can try it some more. Or something."

"Outstanding," Marshall said. He held out his hand, grinning, and Tony shook it after a moment. "Friends it is," the redhead pronounced as they shook hands.

"We're friends?" Tony asked.

"We already were. This just confirms it." Marshall reached for the door and got out. Before shutting it, he leaned back in and looked at Tony. "If you need to talk, I'm on the top floor of Hull with the rest of brigade staff. If anybody bothers you, tell 'em you're there to see me. If I'm not there, go to the TAC Office and they'll call me down. Anytime at all."

"Thanks, Mom," Tony said with a slight smile.

"Anytime, son," Marshall said. He grinned and winked, then closed the door and headed back to the barracks.

Tanner reached up for the sun visor in front of Tony. He flipped it down and pulled something out of it, and with a small jingle a set of keys fell into Tony's lap.

"If you change your mind and decide to leave," Tanner said, "don't hotwire my car."

 **XX**

Tony caught up with Marshall as the red-haired boy was heading up the stairwell. "Hey, Marshall, hang on a sec."

Marshall turned around. "Yes?"

"Why do you care what happens to me? Plenty of your buddies don't. Why do you give a shit?"

"Isn't it a little late to be sharing, DiNozzo?"

"Humor me."

"I try to help people, DiNozzo. Anyone I can, any way I can. I think it's about time someone showed you they give a shit."

Tony started. "Wait, how do you-"

"Lucky guess. I don't know anything about what home's like for you but it's either really good or really bad if you wind up at Remington, and you don't seem like the first one."

"Well, aren't you smart."

"Just the old Marshall intuition at work, DiNozzo. Did you need anything else? Or can I go to bed now?"

"Uh, so, you really wanna be friends?"

"If you do."

"I guess it'd be all right."

"Then we are."

Tony hesitated, then said, "Thanks. Really."

"Don't thank me yet, DiNozzo. I haven't done anything."

"You went outside and talked to me."

"Anybody can do that," Marshall answered. He smiled and bowed. "You're gonna graduate from here, DiNozzo. It's gonna be hard but you'll make it. I'm betting on you. Good night, and sweet dreams."

"Thanks?" Tony laughed.

"Anytime. Goodnight."

"Yeah, g'night, Marshall."

"Yeah, yeah."

* * *

 **A/N: 12-19-2017. Chapter 4 is done. The story will span out and cover more days than one at a time, but some of these early chapters needed the dense, day-at-a-time coverage in my opinion.**

 **UPDATE, 1-21-2017: I made some edits to this chapter, especially to the end. I found I disliked the original ending to Chapter 4; it made Marshall come off as too villainous. He is a major character in this story, and exploring just who he is and why he does what he does will be a significant part of the plot. But he isn't really the villain that the original Chapter 4 ending made him seem like. So I changed the chapter's ending and found I like this one better. Hopefully readers will agree, or at least they will hopefully like the chapter as it now stands.**

 **I drew some text from "The Deal", another story of mine, for the scene where Honor Corps goes after Piggy. I figured it made sense to use it, since I am now writing a full-length story about that year.**

 **Without giving away anything, I want to say that Marshall has a reason for being the way he is. There are things about him that not even his fraternal brothers in Honor Corps know. That doesn't mean he is just or right in everything he does, but people can have surprising reasons for being one way or another.**

 **From here, we are looking towards the days leading up to Thanksgiving Break, which will run from November 21 to November 29.**

 **As always, feedback is welcome. No matter what your thoughts, please feel free to share them in a review.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

It was damned cold outside; Tony could tell before his feet even hit the floor as Reveille sounded. Man, what was it with this place? Was all that money the parents were paying not enough to heat the frigging barracks? Of course, the barracks of every military academy seemed to be required by law to be built around 1901, and no building that old was gonna be any good at keeping itself the temperature you wanted. They were, however, excellent at doing the opposite.

Tony was relieved to find there was no HC painted on his door this morning. He hated those creeps, but he was also concerned about them, even if he wasn't gonna admit that. None of the boarding schools, even the military ones, that Tony had been to before had featured any kind of eerie group of boys hell-bent on running the school their way. Honor Corps was orderly, efficient, cold. Obsessed with control and indifferent to bullying, if not supportive of it. They had a lot of power at this school.

Tony had seen some demonstrations of it, some indications of how they could mark you and let the whole Corps know you were in their sights. Many boys shied away from Tony, didn't want to speak to him. More than a few boys would refuse to discuss the subject of Honor Corps entirely, or quickly dismiss it when it came up. There were numerous cadets who also insisted it was all rubbish, that no such thing existed, that there was no proof.

After all, anybody could hear the stories and decide to spook some people. A group like that didn't have to actually exist for you to commit a few acts of vandalism on doors and uniforms in order to scare somebody.

Privately, Tony was on the side of the believers. He just had a gut feeling that this bunch was for real. But even if they weren't, he'd sure made some enemies. Some of them Tony was proud to have made- he hated guys like Golan, St. Esprit, and D'Arbanville right back- but he did have a sense he had maybe pushed too hard, too fast.

Tony was not gonna admit it, but Dad was probably right for once. He'd made himself right. The way he'd sounded over the phone wasn't encouraging. Sure, the boneheaded 'businessman' would surely arrange yet another favor with a private school admissions officer if Tony got run out of here. But maybe not. People had limits and it seemed like Dad might finally be paying attention enough that he was reaching his.

Next year, Tony was supposed to be going to some college somewhere, or whatever. He had rarely given that a moment's thought over the past few years, but now it had crept up on him and stood close at hand. Either Tony graduated and went on to the next thing, whatever that was, or he would become that old guy in some classroom somewhere, still in high school at 19 or 20.

What was gonna happen, anyway? Tony didn't like thinking about those things. He just wanted to have fun and irritate people. But high school didn't actually last forever; it just felt like it did. The end was coming and Tony was probably going to need a diploma. As much as he despised this place, Coach Tanner and Marshall were probably right. Tony needed to graduate somewhere, and he'd wound up at Remington just as time began to run out. This dump was as good a place to graduate as any.

Fuck. That meant staying. A whole year of military school. God-damn it.

At least the basketball team seemed decent enough. They were all right guys. Marshall was a real military dick, but this school loved him and he was a nice counterbalance to the rest of the jerks who occupied the top of the school's rank slots. As they got the room ready for inspection, Tony asked Travis about who did what and all, making sure his previous knowledge of cadet ranks and positions held true here.

Sure enough, Marshall was the senior enlisted cadet, advisor to the brigade commander about the needs, condition, and so on of the Corps of Cadets. Here, with a brigade of around five hundred boys, that meant keeping track of a lot of people.

The rest of the pricks up at Brigade had the same kind of jobs Tony knew they did normally. Most everybody had an assistant or two, given the scale of responsibility that the brigade staff had.

Tony decided to play it safe during the inspection. He startled Long by speaking to the cadet captain politely, and he set his side of the room up exactly as Travis showed him. The kid may have been overweight, but he wasn't a slob. He knew plenty about keeping the room straight, and didn't have a problem with giving Tony pointers on anything he wasn't sure about.

Long was strict and businesslike, but he was largely indifferent toward the occupants of Room 353. When he noticed Tony wasn't mouthing off and just responded neutrally to questions or comments, Long reacted in kind. He didn't seem especially fond of Tony, but he held no particular grudge, either. And he didn't seem as interested in bullying Travis Phelps as some of the other boys were.

 **XX**

At Mess I, Tony impulsively steered away from his company's tables and headed on over toward the brigade staff table, the second-most-exalted table in the mess hall short of the High Table itself. The school's senior cadet, Jesus Christ Himself IV, held court amidst some eleven other boys. Some of them were noticeably younger sophomores and even a freshman, serving as lieutenants as assistants to some of the staff officers.

D'Arbanville was talking with a pale-faced boy who had the same pointy chin, and a similar type of short, neat blond hair. That boy's nametag read HOLT.

Golan was arguing something to do with the World Cup with St. Esprit, while a couple of those lieutenants leaned in, eager to hear every word. St. Esprit and Golan noticed someone approaching, looked up, and simultaneously asked "What the hell do you want?"

"Jinx, you owe me a beer," Tony said.

"Get outta my face, DiNozzo," St. Esprit ordered.

"I wanna talk to Marshall," Tony said honestly.

"Looking for me?" a familiar voice said, right behind Tony.

"Jesus!" Tony exclaimed, jumping and tossing his food around on his tray. The boys at the brigade staff all laughed.

"DiNozzo, how about we take that spare table over there and talk, huh?" Marshall offered, already steering Tony towards an unoccupied table a few feet away.

"Yeah, that'll give my heart a chance to recover," Tony said.

"And our _nerves_!" St. Esprit jeered at him. "Go on, Marshall, go. We'll figure out the fucking Color Guard situation later."

The two boys moved over to the empty table and sat down. Tony laughed, shaking his head. "You gotta stop doing that, Marshall."

"Doing what?" the redhead asked, liberally salting his scrambled eggs.

"Scaring me. You just about killed me when you got in Coach's car like that. And did you really have to walk up behind me and not say a word just now?"

"Aw, hell, DiNozzo," Marshall said, "announcing myself would take all the fun out of it."

"For you," Tony said. "not for me."

"Who said I was talking about fun for you?" Marshall shot back. "I was talking about fun for me!"

They both had a good laugh over that. Tony started on his own food and was surprised to find it wasn't as bad as before. It was that, or he was getting used to it.

"So what was that about the Color Guard?" Tony asked after a couple minutes.

"Oh, that dumbass LeBlanc got himself kicked out and we didn't exactly have a bunch of replacement flag bearers standing around to take his place." Marshall gave Tony a glance. "You're lucky you didn't go with him. Marshall and Golan sure wanted you to."

"So why didn't they use their creepy little club to do it?" Tony asked, snorting derisively.

"Oh, that. Let's say they… stayed their hand, Tony."

"Honor Corps did?"

"Yeah. Or they will, anyway. Coach said things are gonna change at this school. He means it. You didn't hear this from me, but I want that to happen. I'm backing him on that. So they know better than to go charging in when there's people like me and Coach around."

"So how are you friends with them, anyway?" Tony asked curiously, glancing at the brigade staff table. D'Arbanville half-turned to look at Tony while combing his blond hair a moment. He gave Tony a dirty look and returned to talking to Holt.

"Who says I am?" Marshall replied calmly, picking up his glass of orange juice.

"You live with them. You're on Brigade staff with them. They like you even if they hate me."

"Everybody here likes me. Even you, DiNozzo. And you've been trying really hard to not like anybody."

"Who says I was doing that?"

"Come on, DiNozzo. The whole big tough-guy, I-don't-need-anybody act. I see it all the time. You're not the first guy with crappy parents to walk in here and start acting like that."

"One crappy parent," Tony corrected him.

"What?" Marshall said, setting the glass down.

"I said I have one crappy parent. My Mom's not like that."

"Oh, you gonna see her over Thanksgiving Break or whatever?"

"No," Tony said. He hesitated, then added, "She's dead."

Marshall looked up, startled. "Oh. I'm sorry. Why are you telling me this? This is actually kind of awkward."

"Well, my Dad's an idiot, but my Mom was fine. I don't want you talking about her like she's as bad as my Dad is."

"Makes sense." Marshall paused, then cleared his throat. "Uh, so you wanna graduate from this dump or what?"

"I can't believe you called it that," Tony said, grinning.

"You know I don't mean it the same way you do," Marshall said. Then he paused dramatically. "Or do I?"

Tony laughed. "So what's the deal, then?"

"No deal," Marshall said. "You keep your fucking head down and your nose clean. Shine your shoes and brass, keep out of trouble. Well, as much as possible."

"Even girl trouble?"

" _That_ you go looking for."

Tony laughed again, feeling better than he had since he'd arrived here. He found Marshall easy to like. He was even starting to trust him, going out on a limb and telling him the deal with his mother and all. And it seemed like both of them had a thing for the ladies, which was definitely good common ground to have.

"I don't wanna just turn into some military dick, Marshall," Tony said. "That's not me."

"Who said you had to do that?" Marshall asked rhetorically. "I don't mean you gotta be a fanatic. Just do what Fussy expects any cadet to do. It's not that hard, man. I promise."

Tony thought about that. He loathed all this bullshit military school crap. The early wakeups, the lousy food, the twelve different uniforms, the strict rules on damn near everything you did or could possibly do. Marshall seemed to love it, but he also wasn't a colossal prick like a lot of his buddies on Brigade Staff were.

"So how do I know _you're_ not one of them?" Tony asked suddenly.

"I was in the bottom five-percent of my class freshman year," Marshall answered.

"So what?"

"It means I'm stupid, or I was. And the Corps won't take anyone stupid."

"Really? You get some bad grades three years ago and they won't pick Muscles Marshall just for that?"

The redhead laughed. "Yeah, well, I'm also an enlisted cadet, and I'm adopted."

"Huh?" Tony replied. "What's that got to do with it?"

"You notice how the rest of the guys you can think of who'd be in Honor Corps all have families? Like, actual families? Josh and I got no family. The Corps don't like to take homeless losers. And they only take kids who're commissioned officer cadets, and I've stayed an NCO for six years."

"What's an NCO again?"

"Non-commissioned officer. Sergeants. I'm the big dog, Brigade Sergeant Major."

Tony shrugged. "So, do I gotta salute you, and stuff?"

"Don't you ever," Marshall said, shaking his head. "Never salute a sergeant. The cadets around here will sometimes think that's funny, but if Gunny Ellison or Sergeant Major Ambrose sees you, they'll have a talk with you about it and you aren't gonna like it."

"I don't like a lot of things around here."

"Yeah, but just be more subtle about it, hey?" Marshall shrugged. "It's November and you gotta get through to May. Six months. Piece of cake."

Tony finished eating the sausage some poor pig had died to make, then said, "Do you have a piece of cake?"

"Nah. I got some great porn mags if you want one, though."

Tony laughed. "How's that helpful? I wanted some fuckin' cake, here."

"Those mags are food for your eyes, boy. For your eyes."

"Just like the cheerleaders."

"Yeah, exactly."

 **XX**

Block I turned out to be Rhode Island & US government with Major Scott Kirkland, a slightly overweight man who had been at the school since 1965. Then came Leadership & Ethics with Sergeant Major Ambrose, who scared the living daylights out of everyone by dropping a large textbook on the floor as the class got chatty at one point. Tony had expected to be bored out of his mind when he realized he was in this silly leadership class, but Sergeant Major Ambrose patrolled the room constantly and generally made it impossible to even get bored. But more than that, the class was rather interesting. Ambrose was clearly drawing on his own knowledge as he told them all how leadership worked, and how it did not, and he did not play favorites with anyone in the class.

Block III was Algebra 2 with Colonel Kazuo Mimura, a former Japanese citizen who had moved to the United States in the 1950's. Tony found he had to do just as much to keep alert in Colonel Mimura's class as he did in Sergeant Major Ambrose's- both men were able to keep a class silent with little to no effort, and moved and watched the class constantly.

Block IV was Chemistry with Captain McConville, and Tony was pleased to find he shared that class with Marshall. He was less pleased to realize he also shared it with D'Arbanville.

During lunch, Marshall irritated the other boys on Brigade Staff by moving to sit with Tony in Alpha Company. The Alpha Company boys were delighted and crowded around to greet him before reluctantly returning to their seats. Marshall explained the general workings of the structure around here- how there were three battalions and some twelve companies, who oversaw the various units- and the essentials of cadet life. There was a lot to know, but Marshall made it sound like it wasn't so bad.

After classes ended for the day, Tony reluctantly reported to the TAC Office on the bottom floor of Aubrey Hall and drew a rifle to start marching tours on the big white-outlined square behind the building. Known simply as The Quad, it was the place all cadets who had messed up went to pay their dues to the system. Tony resented the hell out of it, but Marshall had warned him he had to start paying up or he'd be run out of here quick.

"They'll be watching you," Marshall had said quietly. "They'll be looking for any excuse. Don't give them one. Get that fucking diploma."

It was sound advice. And Marshall had brought up something else, too, when they talked alone briefly before Tony went and got his rifle. Honor Corps wanted Tony to leave RMA. They had made that clear. They had wanted him running scared, and for a few minutes last night, Tony had given them what they wanted. Well, to hell with them. Tony's resolve grew as he marched fifty feet, executed a right-face, then repeated as he marched his way along the white borderline of The Quad. The wood-and-steel rifle on his right shoulder began to weigh more heavily on his shoulder, but Tony wasn't about to let that show while that smug prick D'Arbanville was watching.

"Hey, DiNozzo! You're eye-talian, right? How 'bout you come shine my shoes with that greasy hair of yours?"

Tony ignored him. D'Arbanville shouted similar things as he lazed about the edge of the quadrangle, wearing the same gray overcoat and black leather gloves as Tony, but with a scarf around his neck as well. He held a clipboard, and occasionally as the time passed, he would call someone off and someone else on. Only for some of it did he get to taunt Tony, though. Master Chief Petty Officer Parens , or "Petty Parens", "Chief Parents," or "Not-My-Parents" as the boys called him where he couldn't hear, was the TAC officer watching the boys marching tours this afternoon, and he didn't have much tolerance for D'Arbanville's mockery of Tony.

It wasn't a defense of Tony personally, Tony quickly saw. Chief Parens just got annoyed anytime anybody wasn't doing things the official way, and verbally taunting the marchers was not an officially-sanctioned part of the system.

Tony had racked up quite a few demerits during his first days here. He would be marching for a little while yet. His right arm was distinctly sore after he finally turned in the rifle. Carroll and Heisler were there, talking with Gunny Ellison and that master gunnery sergeant. They just glanced at Tony, then lost interest again. When Tony told them he was there to return the rifle, Ellison said, "Rack it and get out."

Gladly. Tony had barely any time before basketball practice as it was.

The guys all gave Tony a lot of grief for having a sore right arm, suggesting it was due to something besides marching tours. Tony put up with the ribbing, having gotten it before from teammates at schools he'd gone to here and there. Marshall teased him, too, but he did that to everybody.

 **XX**

By Friday, the basketball boys had taken to calling Tony "Dino", short for "dinosaur," and "Zero" or "Null" since he wore a blank jersey with no number.

After running all over the indoor court for an hour, Coach Tanner finally called an end to the practice, gathered everyone, and unceremoniously threw Tony a silver-lined blue jersey. It had the number 0 on the back, and above that, printed in bold silver-gray letters, DINOZZO.

"Coach?" Tony asked.

"That's yours," Tanner rumbled. "You're a starter on my varsity roster. Don't mess this up, DiNozzo."

"Yes, I mean- no, I won't, Coach," Tony said, grinning.

"I'll see you bums on Monday," Tanner said. "Everyone go hit the showers. I'm tired of looking at you."

The minute they got into the locker room, Marshall pounced on Tony, followed by the other dozen-plus boys on the varsity, JV, and middle school teams. They were all slapping him on the back, yelling in his ears. Tony quickly stripped and joined the others in heading for the showers, where the focus quickly became trying to cover his ass. Every single kid who saw him seemed set on slapping him on the ass five or six times, and Marshall was doing nothing but encouraging them.

Tony resisted and hit back whenever he could, but he couldn't quite keep a grin off his face. The basketball team was really a team, one that seemed glad to have Tony around. Marshall, the varsity captain, was allied with Coach Tanner. They were his best prospect for standing up to Honor Corps, and Tony appreciated the trust they were showing him.

Best of all, by far, was the jersey bearing his name. He was on the team at last.

 **XX**

Once the boys were all present, St. Esprit sat down and looked at them all. "All right. What do we have on this guy?"

D'Arbanville spoke first, clearing his throat and flipping open a small notepad he used. It was in imitation of Obie Jameson, that little fink from The Chocolate War, but D'Arbanville's reputation was much more like that of Archie Costello. He was certainly nobody's errand boy.

"Anthony D. DiNozzo," D'Arbanville drawled. "Born July 8th, 1969, New York City, New York. From an Italian-American family, great-grandparents came to the US through Ellis Island. Grandfather introduced fucking Swiss Army knives or something. Mother's family is Paddington, got some greaseball uncles like Vincenzo DiNozzo on Long Island… blah, blah blah. Been kicked out of six boarding schools before coming to Remington, he's got a history of bad behavior and being ignored by his businessman father… oh. And his mother died when he was eight." D'Arbanville snapped the notebook shut with a practiced flip of his wrist. "Ain't that a bitch."

A rumble of laugher briefly filled the room, but St. Esprit quickly restored silence with a glace around his darkened room.

"You should be more sympathetic, Darby."

"Since when did you care about this guy?" D'Arbanville scoffed.

"I don't. I just think you should be more sympathetic."

"Yeah, whatever."

"No, seriously, Darby, you have, what, two hundred bedrooms in that house of yours? You could house all the homeless people of South Carolina."

"No, thanks," D'Arbanville said, turning up his nose at the idea. "Good God, we'd _never_ get the smell out."

"Okay, okay," St. Esprit said, holding up his hands. "So maybe you wanna explain, Marshall, why we're not running this wop out of here?"

Marshall, who sat with his chair next to the door, stood up. In the light of the battery-powered flashlights placed strategically around the room, the redhead walked to the middle of the semi-circle of nine other boys and smiled.

"I was hoping you'd ask, Colonel."

"All right, so get on with it," Golan said.

"Sure. Short version is, I say we refuse to give him exactly what he wants. He wants us to let him leave, he wants us to kick him out!" Marshall laughed. "See, we can't do that. Because he wants that. See?"

"And what did your brother think about this, now that we know this is what your fucking 'big idea' was?"

"I told him we'd give DiNozzo a royal fucking one way or the other. He said that would be fine."

The boys laughed.

"We'd be fucking him pretty good if we just ran him out," Park said. "We even put the hold on things because you said. He's in trouble. We should just run him out."

"And miss out on the opportunity to make a man out of him?" Marshall said, grinning. "What is it we do here? We make men. I think there's a man, a real man in that whiny little boy. I'll teach him discipline and set him straight. Give me the chance and I'll do it."

"Man, why do _you_ fucking care?" Heisler asked in amazement.

"DiNozzo's an idiot," Marshall replied. "But he's tougher and smarter than he acts. And he's got real talent on the basketball court. I think he mostly just _acts_ like a moron."

"He embarrassed me in front of my father," St. Esprit said sternly. "And he's a fucking wop. My father told me Italians aren't good for anything but making fast cars and pizzas and you should never trust them when the chips are down."

"That's basically anyone who doesn't have a name like yours or mine," D'Arbanville said. "That's basically anyone who isn't rich."

"I'm not rich," Golan said. "My family's a lot of park rangers, soldiers and coal miners."

D'Arbanville's pale face went white. "Hey, I didn't mean y-"

"Darby, you're a great guy but that fucking mouth of yours gets on my nerves sometimes," Golan went on. "You talk about blue-collar people like they're trash, like anyone who isn't from the Old Families of Charleston is trash. Well, then, I guess _I'm_ trash."

"No!" D'Arbanville exclaimed, putting out his hands. "Golan- Mark, I'm sorry. You know I just mean the people who're- who- you know I don't mean you."

"I'm not exactly rich either," Marshall pointed out.

"Boys, boys," D'Arbanville said, holding up his hands. "Please. Please, I don't mean it like that. Forgive me."

"It isn't all the family pedigree, young prince," Marshall said, a hint of a smile on his face.

"It's actions. Deeds make a man's worth more than his blood," Golan pronounced.

"Yes. Y-yes, you're right, I'm-I'm sorry," D'Arbanville said, flushing and looking at the floor.

"It's all right," Golan said stiffly.

"We don't mind," Marshall said. "Just mind how you talk. It sends the wrong message sometimes."

"All right," D'Arbanville said. "You got it, boys. You got my word."

"Gentlemen," St. Esprit said. "I'd like to get back to business. Darby, I think Golan and Marshall have a point, but we all know you're an elitist prick anyway."

The boys laughed, and D'Arbanville flushed, smiled sheepishly, and made a rude gesture at the brigade commander.

"So Marshall, for some fucking reason, says we keep DiNozzo here and try to make a man out of him. But Marshall, my man, I hope somebody else is for this because I don't know if I am."

"I am."

Every other pair of eyes in the room looked at Golan. He sat against the wall, arms crossed, and he shrugged. "I think Marshall's idea might work. I say we see if we can't set this asshole straight. If anyplace can, it's Remington."

St. Esprit looked like he'd just heard NATO might surrender to the Soviet Bloc tomorrow. "You really wanna let this wop stay, Mark? You like him, too?" he asked.

"I don't _like_ him at all," Golan spat. "I can't fucking _stand_ him. But I trust Marshall and I think there's a man somewhere under all that bullshit."

"Yeah, maybe," Park said. "But I'm not rolling over and letting him fuck up my battalion."

"1st Battalion is pretty fucked up as-is," Carroll and Heisler said together. Everyone chuckled, and the two boys exchanged a high-five.

"Nobody's asking you to roll over," St. Esprit said. "Marshall? Anything else you wanna tell us? This is your show."

"How 'bout we put him and his fatass roommate on Brigade Color Guard?"

That set off a whole new argument. St. Esprit was absolutely against it, saying he was not gonna have either of them near the United States flag, or the RMA flag, or even the Rhode Island flag. Park and D'Arbanville were also completely opposed. Golan was against it too. But once everyone quieted down, Marshall made an offer.

"Tell you what, boys. Let's put 'em up for it this coming week. If they say no, or if they can't do it, I'll go with our fearless commander and we'll run DiNozzo out."

"And if they can do it, or whatever?" Park asked.

"Then I guess he stays," Golan answered.

"He's not gonna expect us all to just be for this all of a sudden," D'Arbanville pointed out. "It'll look weird to a lotta people."

"I don't want that," Marshall replied. "Actually, I think St. Esprit and Golan should argue against it officially when it comes up. It'll help."

"With what?" St. Esprit asked. "You're thinking too much. Can't you just fuck some new girl already?"

"Oh, I'm gonna get to that. Don't you worry."

"Yeah, I know," St. Esprit said. "Fine, whatever. Fill me and Golan in and we'll do our part. Does Coach really think he's gonna get rid of us this year?"

"Yes," Marshall replied. "And that's just what we want him to think. It'll keep him and DiNozzo busy. Keep 'em chasing that carrot. Then the year ends, DiNozzo graduates and he's outta here and he won't care anymore. And reality will hit for Coach Tanner."

"It will," St. Esprit said, nodding solemnly. "My father will see to that."

"What, is he gonna fucking kill Coach Tanner or something?" Carroll asked.

"No. But he is gonna set that motherfucker straight. He'll be the one who makes sure reality hits. Tanner has… no idea who he's fucking with. He'll learn. And so will DiNozzo. Especially if you can't keep him in line, Marshall. He's your responsibility."

"Not a problem, Colonel. I've got it all under control."

"Never figured you for a double agent," Park remarked.

"I'm just full of surprises, aren't I?"

 **XX**

On Monday morning, Tony almost felt like a human being. It wasn't in the negatives outside, he'd had a look over the weekend at the magazine Marshall had 'lost' while visiting Tony's room, and he had walked off most of his tours. He had done precious little else on Saturday and Sunday, but the demerits list on him was indeed much lower. To top it off, he'd even gotten some decent sleep last night. Tony was just sitting down next to Travis Phelps when Marshall came up behind them, setting a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Hey, boys."

"Marshall," Tony said, looking up. "Hi. Good morning. Did you need something?"

"I like your good manners, even if you're being sarcastic, DiNozzo."

"Really, what the hell do you want?"

Collins, Tony's squad leader, showed up with his tray and pulled out a chair opposite Tony and Travis. "Have a seat, Marshall."

"Thanks, Sarge," Marshall said, quickly moving around and sitting down. "Okay, boys. I need you to do something for me."

"What?" Tony and Phelps asked together.

"I need you to do something that is normally a really bad idea around here, but this time it is."

"And what's that?" Tony asked.

"We have two slots open on Color Guard for flag bearers. We need those filled in time for the parade this Friday before we all get to fuck off and-"

St. Esprit showed up then, staring angrily down at Marshall. "Marshall," he said, "are you fucking still talking about this? I told you to forget it! I am not gonna have either of them carrying any flags!"

"Hey, look, Colonel, you said-"

"I said to forget it!"

"Not arguing, I hope, boys?" General Blake asked. Tony only just managed to avoid jumping two feet in the air. He had no idea when the General had gotten here. He hadn't so much walked over as just shown up. How did he even _do_ that?

The boys at the table all started to jump up and stand at attention, but the General waved them down. "No, no, boys, just eat your breakfast." He looked at St. Esprit and Marshall. "Anything I ought to know?"

"Sir," St. Esprit said, controlling his temper, "Marshall is trying to recruit DiNozzo and Phelps to fill our open slots on the brigade Color Guard."

"I don't see why not," General Blake said, looking at Tony and Phelps. "They look like they could do the job."

"Sir, respectfully, Golan and I have spoken with Marshall about this. We don't think that-"

"Then you and Mr. Golan drive by my office after Mess II this afternoon. Mr. DiNozzo, can you spare some time for us?"

"Yes, sir," Tony said, catching a slight nod from Marshall.

"And Mr. Phelps?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Excellent," General Blake said. "I will see you all then. Good morning, gentlemen."

St. Esprit looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't dare argue with a brigadier general. He stared at Tony for a moment, then stalked off.

"I think you pissed him off," Marshall said, chuckling.

"Good," Tony said.

 **XX**

At Mess II, Tony ate in a hurry and got permission to go with Marshall to get ready to report to General Blake's office at 1300. The red-haired boy led him to the top floor of the Hull barracks, then got out two cans of shoe polish.

"Better do this quick," he said, taking out a pair of white rags, stained with black shoe polish.

"So how's this gonna work?" Tony asked, quickly opening up one of the cans and taking the little applicator sponge Marshall tossed him.

"Well, you're gonna shine up your shoes some more. I'm gonna work on mine, make sure they're perfect. Then we make sure we're both in proper uniform and go see the General."

"I mean when we get there."

"We'll report in however he says to. He might want to speak to only a few of us at a time, or all of us at once. Depends on what he wants to do. If all goes well, we can get you and Phelps on Color Guard and we'll have some new flag bearers real soon."

"What makes you think I can carry a flag?" Tony asked. "I don't know anything about that."

"It's not that hard. You just make sure to do everything just the right way."

"Sounds like being at military school."

"Now you're getting it, DiNoodle."

"It's DiNozzo."

"Yeah, yeah."

XX

The Class B-I uniform consisted of a long-sleeved gray shirt with black tie, dress hat without white cover, and belt according to rank. As a private, Tony wore the enlisted belt buckle, which was plain, flat brass. His was new issue and he hadn't yet bothered to polish it, but Marshall snatched the buckle from him, got out some Brasso and yet another rag, and buffed it to a high mirror shine in just a few minutes. He worked so fast and with such precision, Tony didn't know whether to be horrified that he was becoming friends with a military dick or amazed at that friend's skill in making shiny things shinier.

Marshall's belt buckle depicted the Remington shield, flanked on either side by a laurel wreath.

"Enlisted wear the flat brass buckle," Marshall explained. "NCO's wear the shield; senior NCO's wear the buckle with the shield and laurel. Cadet officers wear a silver buckle with gold shield and laurel."

"Good to know somebody's keeping track," Tony cracked.

"I gotta know all of this," Marshall said. "I gotta keep all the wise guys in line."

"Like me?" Tony joked.

"Yeah, DiNozzo. Exactly like you."

After a few more minutes of prepping, Marshall stood DiNozzo up and proceeded to turn him this way and that, snapping out orders and instructions as he guided Tony in reassembling his uniform. Tony attempted to reciprocate, but other than a few small things Marshall just brushed him off. "You don't know shit about these uniforms," he said. "No offense, but you'd hurt more than help. Just trust me."

"Gosh, do I even have a choice?"

"Not really. You're stuck with me."

"Oh, great," Tony said, groaning. "You think I could hang myself with this necktie, here?"

"Speaking of, tighten yours up. There you go. Can't have your collar showing right above it."

Marshall finally turned and headed for the door. "Off we go, DiNozzo," he said. "Time to go see the General."

Tony stepped out into the hallway. For some reason, his pulse had quickened its pace.

"You nervous?" Marshall asked.

"Why would I be nervous?"

"It's required when you go to meet with generals, I believe."

 **XX**

Tony and Marshall arrived on the main headquarters floor of Aubrey Hall at the same time as St. Esprit and Golan did. The two highest-ranked boys in the school looked like they'd walked off a recruiting poster, and as a matter of fact, there was one of the two of them in full dress uniform, life size, standing with their feet planted wide on the front steps of this very building, displayed inside the office of Major David Nichols, the Director of Admissions. The Major himself passed by, greeting the boys, and just then Mrs. Kelly, the President's secretary, showed up and ushered the four of them into a small waiting area next to the General's office. Any confrontation or argument was further stalled by Travis showing up. He was breathing hard, having surely just run from the barracks, but his uniform was in excellent shape.

Trying to stay calm, Tony amused himself by making faces whenever Golan or St. Esprit were looking. Golan just shook his head and picked up one of the school yearbooks from the stack on the end table next to his chair. St. Esprit noticed that and did the same thing, ending Tony's fun for the moment.

"Boys, General Blake will see you now," Mrs. Kelly said, coming back out of the General's office.

They all stood.

"By rank, gentlemen," St. Esprit said, motioning to Tony and Travis. "Go on."

Marshall followed them in, and then the two senior cadets entered the room last. A set of five chairs sat in front of the General's desk, and he turned from the window to face them as St. Esprit marched smartly to the front of the group and saluted.

"Cadets St. Esprit, Golan, Marshall, DiNozzo and Phelps reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Thank you, St. Esprit," General Blake said. "Please, gentlemen, be seated."

The five boys each took a seat in one of the formal-looking, dark-colored, polished wooden chairs. Tony had been holding his dress hat under his left arm as Marshall had told him to do, but he shifted it to his lap as he sat down. He felt ridiculous, trying to dress up smart like this, but he figured he had better get used to that, especially if he was suddenly bucking for Color Guard. Tony really wasn't so certain if that's what he wanted, but maybe it would be a way to look better, or something. If it helped him hurry things along until graduation, that would be fine.

And besides, St. Esprit and Golan were against it, and that meant Tony was for it.

"So I decided we should have this little meeting after realizing that a possible solution to our shortage of flag bearers at Brigade involves the newest member of our family," General Blake said. "I assume you all understand that."

"Yes, sir," they all said.

"Good. Now, I understand there are some disagreements about this, but I'm prepared to hear them out. You will each get a chance to speak if you would like. Mr. St. Esprit?"

"Thank you, sir," St. Esprit said. "I have no argument against DiNozzo becoming a standard bearer, except this- he has been here for not even two weeks, and in that time, he has proven himself extremely hostile to our traditions and values here. He made a profane rendition of the cadet prayer on Veteran's Day, and he attempted to embarrass myself, Golan, and my father. Sir, DiNozzo is not a model cadet. He is not even close to a model cadet. He should not be allowed to carry the school, state, or national flag under any circumstances."

"Thank you, St. Esprit. Mr. Golan?"

"His behavior up to now has been exceptionally poor, sir," Golan said immediately. "I agree entirely with St. Esprit. DiNozzo has been set on causing trouble from the minute he showed up. He should not be rewarded for his behavior in any way, shape or form. His gross insubordination and disregard for standards tells us all we need to know to settle this."

"Gee, thanks, Golan," Tony said, trying to control his temper. "I think the Corps just survive six months of me carrying a flag around."

"You _would_ have it all counted out, wouldn't you?" Golan snapped.

"His shoes and brass were a joke even up to this morning," St. Esprit said, going in for the kill. "The only reason he looks like he does now is because Marshall helped shine him up. But he looked like a joke up to this morning- I remember that clearly. That is how I would put it, sir, after careful thought. His whole appearance was a joke."

"It could certainly have used improvement, but I don't know if I'd go quite that far," General Blake said thoughtfully. "Mr. Marshall, you've been uncharacteristically quiet. I'm sure you have some thoughts to share with us."

Marshall leaned forward, furrowing his brow. His black epaulets rested on either shoulder, and the gold fabric of the sergeant major's insignia that was sewn into each of them glinted in the sun shining in through the windows. This was as serious as Tony had ever seen him.

"Sir, DiNozzo and Phelps are only involved in this because I asked them to volunteer for Color Guard. St. Esprit and Golan told me they were against it, but I went over to Alpha Company this morning anyway. I feel personally responsible for the trouble that's been stirred up."

"Like we don't know DiNozzo has been provoking his share and then some?" Golan broke in. "General, let's cut the bu- let's get to the point, can we? Phelps is a mediocre cadet, and DiNozzo has been a troublemaker since he showed up. Neither one of them deserves to be a flag bearer."

"General, Golan and St. Esprit are not friends with me," Tony said with forced calm. "I am not friends with them."

"Simply put, gentlemen," General Blake remarked.

"You know I've been expelled from a lot of schools, sir."

"And what does that have to do with this, Mr. DiNozzo?"

"Sir, I need to graduate high school somewhere. It might as well be here. Coach Tanner has been telling me I should straighten up some, see how that works out for a change. Marshall has been telling me about the same thing. I think being a flag bearer would be another way of doing that."

"In addition to becoming a starter on the Varsity Basketball lineup, you mean."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Phelps? Any thoughts?"

Marshall nudged the fat boy, and he jumped a little. "I'm r-ready to t-try it, s-sir. I'm up for it," Phelps said.

"Mr. Marshall, have you told Mr. DiNozzo that you oversee the training of the Color Guard alongside Mr. Zamorro?"

"No, sir."

"Being in your position, your word carries a lot of weight on matters like this. All personal considerations aside, how do you feel about this? Could Phelps and DiNozzo act as guidon bearers? Say, in time for the parade this coming Friday?"

"Yes, sir," Marshall answered. "They can."

"Mr. Marshall, Mr. St. Esprit, Mr. Golan, good afternoon. Thank you for expressing your views so openly. It takes a great deal of course to be so direct man-to-man."

"Sir." The three boys stood, saluted, and walked out as the General saw them to the door. St. Esprit shot Tony a smug look as he reached the door, probably convinced he'd won. Tony grinned and shot him the bird. It was probably the first such gesture made in the august confines of that room.

"You can head on out too, Mr. Phelps," General Blake said. "I don't want to keep you any longer than I have, and I'd like to have a word with Mr. DiNozzo before he gets on his way."

"Yes, sir," Phelps said. He stood, saluted and left, looking immensely relieved to be getting out of this room.

Once they were alone, General Blake returned to his desk and sat down. He straightened his olive-green uniform unconsciously, brushing a few specks of dust off his many ribbons. Behind him on the wall were citations, diplomas, pictures of various highlights of his long career in the Marines. General Blake waited a few moments before speaking.

"How do you feel that meeting went, Mr. DiNozzo? May I ask what you think of Mr. St. Esprit and Mr. Golan?"

"I think they're assholes, sir."

"You are talking to the President of this school, Mr. DiNozzo," General Blake snapped. "You will mind your mouth and your manners."

"Uh- I apologize, sir," Tony replied. "I just don't get along with them. Some guys just don't get along."

"I do not expect you to become friends with either of them," General Blake answered. "But I believe they raise a valid point. You have a history that says you like to go looking for trouble, and you have stayed true to that history since coming here. Mr. Marshall vouches for you. Clearly you've made an impression on him. He must have spoken to Captain Tanner about this as well, because I received a written recommendation on your behalf this morning."

"You'll just have to let me try it, or not let me," Tony said with a shrug. "I can't prove anything any other way. Sir."

"Fine words, Mr. DiNozzo. I'm going to recommend that you and Mr. Phelps start reporting for Color Guard training, as of today. You will have a lot of work ahead of you. I expect to see nothing short of excellence from both of you when the parade commences on Friday."

"All right, sir."

"Make this the moment you start to turn things around. In your high school career, and at this school. Don't disappoint me. I'll expect a lot from you."

"Sounds good. Sir."

"You're dismissed, Mr. DiNozzo. Good afternoon."

 **XX**

The rest of the day passed smoothly enough. Tony found he had to move quite fast to make it to each class on time in the scant five minutes allowed between classes. He managed to find some time to jerk off during the lull before afternoon academic lab started, even though it was damn awkward since Trask Hall's bathrooms had no fucking stall doors. Needs were needs, though, and Tony couldn't always wait until late in the day. With classes and formations already taking up most of his time, Tony wasn't sure if he really liked what he was evidently now signed up for- playing varsity basketball and marching with Color Guard.

Free time, especially if you were signed up for anything, was scarce around here.

Tony wasn't exactly looking forward to having to be near the pricks on Brigade Staff so much. Inevitably, training with the Brigade Color Guard would involve training with the Brigade Staff, which was composed exclusively, it seemed, of fucking pricks.

Well, a bunch of fucking pricks and Marshall. Tony could not, for the life of him, understand how a decent guy (mostly) like that could have wound up surrounded by so many jackasses. It was just one of life's little mysteries, probably, but maybe Tony would have some time to figure it out while he was here.

 **XX**

St. Esprit looked like he wanted to blow a gasket when Tony reported for Color Guard practice that evening, but he had evidently heard about Brigadier General Blake's decision because he didn't say anything. When the colors were brought out, Marshall and a sharp, businesslike cadet captain called Zamorro- evidently the Color Guard commander for the entire school- started trying to work out who was going to carry what.

"Okay, so we have Sutherland there to carry the school flag, yeah- how about if- no, no no, that won't work." Marshall shook his head. "Okay, how about- DiNozzo carries the U.S. flag and Piggy, Phelps, whatever, carries the Rhode Island flag?"

"Better get those damn white belts on 'em and figure this out," Zamorro said. "Okay, DiNozzo. Here's what you gotta do…"

It took a couple minutes, but they managed to properly fit Tony and Phelps each with one of the white belts. It ran around his waist, crossed in a big white X over his front and back, and there was a slot to put the last couple inches of the flagpole. Tony had imagined you were supposed to carry it entirely by hand, but he wasn't gonna complain if they gave him an out sometimes.

Tony was just taking hold of the U.S. flag, lifting and getting a feel for it, when St. Esprit halted whatever discussion he was having with the rest of his staff and came striding over, eyes flashing.

"Who said you could hold that flag, DiNozzo?"

"Aw, gimme a break, _Colonel_!" Tony protested. "Can't I have five minutes without-"

"None of your _shit_ , DiNozzo, now _who gave you that flag_?"

"That was me and Zamorro," Marshall said. "We're trying to get them started on practicing, remember? General Blake made the call on this."

"Yeah, I know he did, but he didn't say that DiNozzo was to carry the _American flag_!" St. Esprit exclaimed. "Have _Piggy_ carry it, at least he can't help being a fucking shitbag!"

"Hey-" Tony started, but St. Esprit cut him off.

"You _shut up_!" he ordered, pointing angrily at Tony. "You have no fucking business carrying my country's flag, DiNozzo. Hand it to Piggy or so fucking help me-"

"It's just a _flag_ , man!"

"Don't you _ever_ say that again," St. Esprit snarled. "Don't you-"

"Hey, hey," Marshall said, getting in between them. "Take it easy!"

"What's got into you?" St. Esprit protested. "Why're you taking his side, anyway?"

"I'm not taking sides," Marshall said evenly. "I am trying to do what General Blake said. I think DiNozzo and Piggy will do fine as flag bearers. But I need you to get off their ass for a minute and let me and Zamorro drill 'em. Even if they don't turn out to have what it takes or they fuck up, we gotta try to get 'em ready for Friday because that's what the General said to do."

"Okay," St. Esprit said. He looked at Tony. "You drop that flag, DiNozzo, it's your ass. I promise you. Piggy- you, too."

St. Esprit then strode back to the brigade staff officers and started drilling with them. They had all brought their sabers, and they drew them, sheathed them, and drew them again on St. Esprit's command. While his focus had to be primarily on marching in step with Piggy and Sutherland, Tony cast occasional glances at the staff officers, practicing with their sabers. They sure looked a sight, every motion fluid and yet precise, exactly in unison with the others. They too wore special belts, black instead of white leather, with silver scabbards attached to them. Marshall wore a different blade, a straight sword instead of a curved saber, and a brass hilt instead of the black handgrip and overall silver appearance of the sword, like the one that Zamorro wore.

Zamorro and Marshall proved to be a real pain in the ass. The entire time Tony and Piggy marched with Sutherland, they were watched like hawks, and every mistake was quickly caught and addressed. The brigade flag bearers were joined by two other boys Tony didn't know, younger cadets who had drawn rifles from the armory and marched on the outer edge of the three flag bearers, one on each side. They started over again and again, as Marshall and Zamorro worked to get them marching in step, to make every command obeyed instantly and with just the right action in response to it. Tony began to reconsider his liking for Marshall for a while. He was nicer than those jackasses he shared a barracks floor with, but he was no less zealous about military drill and ceremony.

Somehow, in the midst of all this, the Color Guard from all three battalions was also marching and drilling, and Marshall and Zamorro actually found time to critique them as well. They would dart off anytime they allowed the Brigade Color Guard a break and spend almost the whole time watching and practicing drill with some other group.

The gymnasium was filled with noise as Band Company banged away on its drums, providing an easy cadence to march to, and guidon bearers from every platoon seemed to be here, drilling in groups. Eventually, things began to quiet down as Gunnery Sergeant Ellison dismissed groups here and there.

During the last pause before drill ended, Marshall touched Tony on the shoulder as he passed by. Grinning mischievously, Marshall put a finger to his lips and mouthed "Watch me".

Then he crossed the polished floor of the basketball gym, walked up behind St. Esprit, who was busy giving a talk on something to a bunch of cadet officers. He took something out of his pocket and reached for St. Esprit's saber, which rested in its finely-polished scabbard at the brigade commander's left hip.

It took a moment, but Tony wanted to howl with delight when he realized it was a plastic zip-tie, and Marshall was fastening it to lock St. Esprit's saber in place. The boys on the Color Guard near Tony started sniggering, and even Piggy gave a few laughs. He laughed awkwardly, giving a few unintended snorts like a pig.

The prank looked like it would go off perfectly, but then suddenly St. Esprit stopped talking and turned to his left, looking down. He suddenly snapped his head down to his saber, yanked at it and realized it was stuck, and then went for Marshall. The redhead had anticipated this, though, and he took off running out the gym doors, laughing hysterically.

"We'll go save 'im, Gunny!" Heisler shouted to Gunny Ellison as he and Carroll sprinted for the doors after them, scabbards slapping against their thighs as they ran.

"What in the hell is goin' on over here?" Ellison demanded, storming up to the Brigade Color Guard, who were laughing so hard they could barely stand. "You misters talk and talk fast!"

"A prank, Gunny," Tony answered. "A successful one."

"You cool your mouth there, mister, or I've got another date to arrange between you and The Quad."

"I think one of those cheerleaders would be better, Gunny."

Ellison moved so he was inches from Tony's face. He grinned. "You mockin' me?"

"Nah, Gunny. You're cool."

"You gots to 0600 tomorry to unfuck yourself, get squared up here," Ellison said. Then he screamed in a voice that echoed around the gym, "YOU READS ME? PRIVATE DINOZZO?"

"Yes, Gunny!" Tony shouted, straightening up and holding the flag more tightly.

"You better," Ellison vowed, then stalked away.

Tony glared daggers at the noncom's back. That son of a bitch. Who did he even think he was? Now the whole gym was staring at Tony and he felt like an ass. That hadn't even been his prank!

Marshall returned with a still-glowering St. Esprit and a chuckling Carroll and Heisler in time to see the last of that little encounter. He walked up to Tony, who was still angry, and Piggy, who was still shaking just from having been nearby.

"Don't worry about it," Marshall said. "Ellison's always been a son of a bitch."

 **XX**

The week went by faster than Tony had expected. He did his best to avoid any more confrontations with St. Esprit, Golan, Park or D'Arbanville, something Marshall had encouraged him to do during this final week before break. The harassment had dropped off for now, but there were still boys who avoided Tony like he'd caught the plague. The basketball team were the friendliest to him by far. They followed their captain's example and treated Tony like a new friend.

One of the great pleasures of the week was getting to hit the weight room or the basketball court- or both- during the brief period of free time before "Taps" was sounded. Tony had been to both places before, but Marshall specifically went out of his way to encourage Tony to join him whenever he went. Usually some of the guys Tony hated were there, too, since they were all big fitness nuts, of course. But at least it wasn't all of them. Tony learned to thank God for small favors when it came to that.

Marshall was as much fun to work out with as he was to play basketball with. He was an energetic and affable person, who went after anything he did with the same zealousness he applied to polishing his shoes and brass. That helped Tony's impression of him, knowing that he was at least equally nuts about anything he liked, and it wasn't just this military crap.

It was hard admitting it, but Tony started feeling glad he'd told Marshall a little about his parents. He did not like sharing, given that most of that never led anywhere pleasant for him, but Marshall seemed to almost make Tony want to talk about it. He had an energy about him, a pleasant way of talking to people. He would bounce between the friends he had who hated Tony and Tony himself during weight-lifting sessions, spending some time with both, and somehow kept them away from each other.

Tony and Marshall became a regular sight in the school's weight room, and they even found time to go a few rounds in the boxing ring at Marshall's suggestion on Thursday. Golan was there, and he and a few others stopped to watch while the two basketball jocks went at it. He didn't say anything, but Golan seemed almost impressed at the things Tony had picked up from Marshall, who focused more on training Tony in boxing and less on beating him up.

Before long, it was Thursday night, and Tony was excited to realize he was just one night away from getting the hell out of this place for a whole week. Soon enough, he'd be going on Christmas break as well, and then out of this dump for good. It couldn't happen fast enough.

 **XX**

Mark Golan loved parades. He loved the flags, the crowds, the noise. He loved the uniforms, the hundreds of boys marching in unison, the flawless precision of military dress, of military drill and ceremony. The school fight song, "Waltzing Matilda," and its march, the "Black Jack March," were always heard at parades, blaring out of Band Company's brass instruments.

Marching in step with the rest of the top brigade staff- the assistants were in the ranks of Band Company- Golan thought proudly of Dad's days at the Greenbrier Military School back in the 1950's, and what a time he must have had there. The place had closed in 1972, denying Mark the chance to attend his father's school the way St. Esprit was getting to do. But it was better than going to some civilian high school, where there was no emphasis on discipline, tradition and pride at all.

"All right, you motherfuckers," St. Esprit said in a low voice as the brigade staff marched along the Ryland Field to pass by the reviewing stand, "let's look sharp!"

Mark was already standing straight as he could, but he felt himself try to go straighter still, to assume an absolutely flawless posture as the "Black Jack March" blared across the parade ground, and St. Esprit barked "Eyes-RIGHT!" and raised his sword to present arms.

The blond cadet colonel turned his head 45-degrees to the right, as did all of the brigade staff apart from Edwin, the S-4, who kept his head straight. Marching in a direction you were no longer looking probably seemed impossible to civilians, but Mark had practiced it for years. He'd come to Remington already knowing the basics of military drill- one of many gifts Dad had left behind.

Mark spotted his mother in the reviewing stands, standing beside Charlie and Betty Golan. Grandpa Golan had adopted RMA as his school after Greenbrier had closed, and treated Mark as if he was every bit the man he would have been had he gone to GMA. All Mark wished was that Dad could have been here too, to see the young man his son had become.

The bleachers behind the reviewing stand were filled with parents, alumni, school staff, people from the town of Tiverton. They'd marched clear through town for the Thanksgiving parade, which was held early each year so the cadets could be included. Much to Mark's disbelief, that slob Phelps and that bum DiNozzo had straightened up and looked damn sharp carrying those flags. Would wonders never cease? Maybe Marshall had found some grain of worth in those two, after all. Mark was willing to hear the redhead out. He intended to aid Marshall, to try and make a man out of DiNozzo.

On the reviewing stand itself, Brigadier General Blake and Lieutenant General St. Esprit stood proud and tall, saluting the cadets as they marched past. The two men had a wonderful friendship. They were like brothers. One came from old money and a long line of distinguished Army officers, practically destined from boyhood to wear the stars. The other came from a Midwest blue-collar family and had begun his career in the Marines as a private. One wore the Medal of Honor; the other had a Navy Cross, two Silver Stars, and four Bronze Stars, all for valor. General St. Esprit had even met Dad once, had rescued him and his crew after their damaged B-52 crashed in the jungle close to Hue in 1965. Then-Captain Mark D. Golan and his crew had bailed out, parachuted down, and almost immediately been attacked by a Vietcong patrol.

Then-Captain St. Esprit's company of Screaming Eagles had heard the call go out and swooped down in their Hueys before even the PJ's could get on it. In the brief but extremely intense firefight that ensued, Captains Golan and St. Esprit linked up, coordinated their men, and fought the enemy until they took enough losses that they broke contact. A Distinguished Service Cross was awarded to St. Esprit, and an Air Force Cross to Golan, for their heroic leadership, in a battle estimated to have involved an enemy force around twice their size.

Four years before Mark was even born, and Dad had been kicking ass in the air and on the ground in Vietnam. What extraordinary courage that must have involved. What nerve. What resolve. It awed Mark every time he looked at Dad's medals, at the citations.

Those events had also created a bond between the St. Esprit and Golan families. Though the two men in that battle seldom saw each other afterward, they kept in contact, and when it was discovered that kin of both clans had fought for the Union at Gettysburg, the bond had become permanent.

"Ready-FRONT!" St. Esprit barked, and he and the other boys in the brigade staff all returned to looking straight ahead.

D'Arbanville, whose father, the Governor-Elect of South Carolina, stood in a subtle yet superbly-made suit and overcoat among the watching parents. However he acted or talked at times, D'Arbanville was extremely proud of his name and his family, especially his two kid brothers.

And St. Esprit- he was under enormous pressure every time the Corps went on parade, but especially when his father and mother were watching. They were everything to St. Esprit. Making them proud was what St. Esprit lived for. Following the family tradition, fighting America's wars as the best kind of Army officer possible, was all St. Esprit had ever wanted to do.

Each and every one of the members of Honor Corps had incredible pride in their family, their name. All of them were patriots, committed to preparing themselves every day for going into military service as commissioned officers. Some of them would go career. Others would put in some time, and then go on to other professions. No matter what they did with their lives, the ideals and standards the Corps had taught them would be with them forever.

As the Brigade Staff led the rest of the Corps back up Lansing road, the Color Guard right behind them, Marshall whispered, "Holy shit, DiNozzo and Piggy actually did it."

"Yeah, fucking amazing, right?" Heisler laughed.

"You people shut up," St. Esprit warned. "We're still on parade."

"I love you, too, sir," Golan whispered.

"I'll kill you, Golan," St. Esprit whispered.

"I'm terrified, boy. Terrified."

 **XX**

After the Corps turned in their rifles at the armory, the cadets were formally dismissed, and hundreds of boys were sprinting here and there, embracing family members or guardians of every stripe. Middle school cadets and freshman boys carrying suitcases almost as big as themselves were sprinting across Lansing Street to waiting cars, trying to break the land speed record while their parents checked them out of school.

Among those dozens of cars lining Lansing Road was a big black Cadillac limousine with two red flags flying from the fenders, each one bearing three white stars. Behind it was another Cadillac, equally imposing, with the Governor-Elect of South Carolina's personal driver waiting near it.

Two Senators- one from Wisconsin, one from Maine- had their sons attending here, and official-looking aides hustled their charges along while trying to look natural about it, which was hard to do, even in this mob scene. Several state legislators and officials, as well as corporate executives, had their sons attending RMA. There were officers and NCO's from every service, including a few generals and admirals, though none as high-ranking as General St. Esprit.

The result of all this was that boys whose parents had barely managed to afford the yearly price were leaving alongside boys whose parents owned mansions, commanded warships, airbases, and Army divisions, ran banks and served in political office. The sons of carpenters and grocery store managers were heading to their cars alongside boys whose parents owned farms in New Hampshire and New York state.

Mark watched all of it with no small amount of pride. Yes, Remington was elite and proud of it. They had produced nothing short of the finest young men for more than sixty years. But that didn't mean that boys of humbler origins couldn't come here. It was hard for Mark to believe that he was here himself, sometimes.

 _Not bad for the son of an Air Force colonel and a bunch of West Virginia coal miners_ , Mark thought.

"Hey, you!" Mom said, shaking Mark's shoulder. "You awake in there?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mark answered immediately, shaking his head.

"Well, quit standing around and let's go."

"Yes, ma'am." Mark picked up his bag and headed for the airport taxi. He embraced his grandmother again, then saluted his grandfather.

"Got a little surprise waitin' for you at Newport," Charlie Golan said with a wink.

"What?" Mark asked immediately. "What's going on?"

"Be patient, Mark," Mom counseled him. "Your grandfather knows what he's doing."

"Yes, ma'am," Mark said. "Can't somebody give me a hint, though?"

"Well, it involves flying," Grandpa told him, a little smile on his face.

"What're you up to, Granddad?" Mark asked him, smiling despite his attempts to act stern and serious.

"You'll see."

"Hey! Hey, Golan!" St. Esprit said, running over and pounding him on the shoulders. "I'll see you next week, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure thing, Colonel. I'll see you. Try not to overdo it with the turkey."

"Tell that to _Darby_ , will you? He's gonna be dining at Charleston's finest restaurants, the family mansion _and_ the Governor's Mansion in Columbia! I don't care how much he works out and runs, he's gonna come back ten pounds heavier." He paused, then looked at the assembled elders of the Golan clan. "Hi, sir, ma'am…s."

"Smooth, Alex," Mom commented.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Playing nice, Alex?" Mrs. St. Esprit said, walking over. She was a tall, distinguished-looking woman, quite beautiful even as age was starting to set in. She had silvery-blond hair and cool gray eyes, and was one of the best-known mothers at the Academy.

"Yes, Mom."

"Christina, it was good seeing you again."

"Always a pleasure, Laura. Mark, Betty, Charlie."

"Mrs. St. Esprit," they all said.

"Get some for me," St. Esprit whispered, before heading to the Cadillac limousine.

Behind that car, D'Arbanville was just reaching his limousine. He smiled and waved, and Mark waved back. Mark managed to get a few minutes to say a last few goodbyes to some of his brothers and friends as they departed. He'd lost sight of Marshall since the parade, but the redhead was still waiting on his brother, whose flight had gotten delayed or something. He would be fine. Josh Marshall was as good as his word and then some. He wouldn't leave his brother hanging.

Finally, Mark's mother steered him back to the car, and they all got into the yellow Caprice and rode the twelve minutes to Newport State Airport. Once they got there, Mark started asking questions again- this was a local airport, with no flights from any airlines capable of reaching the local airport in Greenbrier County. But Grandpa had that look in his eye, the look of someone who was up to no good. It was the same look Marshall had when he'd stuck a zip-tie on St. Esprit's saber on Monday night.

But nobody would answer Mark's questions until they were walking out amongst the planes, and Mark was about ready to start hopping up and down. Finally, he looked around and inside the small hangar they were passing, and he spotted the olive drab dive bomber.

"Grandpa, you actually went and did it?" Mark exclaimed.

"Flew her up from Greenbrier two days ago. Your mother and grandmother rode a train up like normal people. We stayed in a hotel, saw some sights. It's amazing what you can see in a day or so with a state the size of a postage stamp."

"So what're we gonna do with this old thing?" Mark demanded, unable to keep a grin off his face.

"Fly her back to West Virginia, I imagine. But I'm old, so I'm gonna let the young buck pilot take three hours in the front seat on this run."

"That's a long time to be flying, Mark," Betty Golan said. "Be careful."

"I think I can handle it," Mark said, grinning still as he looked at the plane.

"She means _be careful_ ," Laura Golan added, emphasizing the last two words. Mark sobered up and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be careful."

"Have fun, you two," Betty Golan said, hugging her husband of forty years, then her grandson of seventeen. "I'll see you in Cass."

"How're you guys getting back?" Mark asked.

"We're going to ride a comfortable airliner," Laura Golan answered. "You boys can take the cramped, smelly, freezing tin can."

"Aw, but Mom, it's one hel-heck of a fine cramped, smelly, freezing tin can!" Mark protested good-naturedly. "And you shouldn't say that in front of a plane called the Banshee."

"It won't dare mess with me," Laura Golan answered, fixing the old dive bomber with a steely glare.

"Yeah, Mom, you tell that plane who's boss!"

"Mark…"

"Uh, I mean that real nice and respectful. Ma'am."

"That's better." Mother and son embraced, and then the two women left, leaving the two pilots to go inside the hangar and climb into the old two-seat bomber.

Charlie Golan moved a little slower now that he was sixty-four years old, but he was still in good shape, and he got into the gunner's seat without too much trouble. It was overcast today, and rain began to fall as the A-24's engine chugged into life and Mark began to taxi out of the hangar. After waiting a few minutes for some Pipers and Cessnas to get out of the way, Mark bickered casually with the air traffic controller, who knew him by name, and finally received clearance for takeoff.

The Banshee, the Army's version of the SBD Dauntless, was named "The Mountaineer", was no fighter. She was too heavy and slow for that. But she was designed to withstand g-forces that could rip the wings clear off any fighter plane from that era, and quite a few planes even today. The old Douglas dive-bomber's chugging grew into a roar as Mark fed power to the engine, pushing the throttle forward. Rain began lashing his face, and Mark reached up and jerked the sliding canopy forward and closed the cockpit.

Behind him, his granddad, the hero of World War II in the Pacific, sat comfortably facing the tail. The Banshee's cockpit was fully enclosed for the winter, its mounted twin .30-caliber machine guns- which were never allowed to be loaded anyway- removed and stored. Grandpa Golan gave no orders to his grandson as Mark took the bomber down the runway, gaining speed, and lifted them into the air. He trusted his grandson so much that he felt no need. Given how skilled a pilot Charlie Golan was, that was an indescribable honor.

 **XX**

Tony sat awkwardly outside the TAC office, awaiting his father's arrival. Given how many times he'd clean forgotten about his son, in so many places, he was more used than he cared to admit to the idea that Dad just wasn't going to show up. In spite of it all, as sure as he was that he couldn't get more jaded about it, Tony was shocked as the number of other cadets waiting dwindled down to almost nothing. All that remained as the sun went down were a pair of Quebecois boys who kept busy by talking rapidly in French to each other, and eventually they were gone, too.

"Everything all right, Mr. DiNozzo?" Sergeant Major Ambrose rumbled, coming out of the TAC office. "You better call your folks. Place is getting ready to close up shop for the weekend."

"He's not coming," Tony said, half to himself. "The son of a bitch isn't coming."

"I'm a little bit deaf," Ambrose said, frowning uncertainly. "I didn't catch that. Gonna have to speak up. Try it again?"

"Just talking to myself, Sergeant Major."

"You should see about talking to somebody who can get you out of here. Got somebody in mind?"

"Just my Dad."

"So? Call him, DiNozzo. Get to it. Parens got a phone in there last I checked."

Tony reluctantly got up and went inside the TAC office, where Master Chief Parens did indeed have a phone ready for him. Tony dialed the hotel in Belfast, then had to waste ten minutes getting the phone number out of the clerk for the next hotel his Dad had gone to. Of course he'd checked out and moved on without even saying anything to Tony. Of _course_! _That_ would have made _sense_!

Finally, he got to his Dad's room at some fancypants place in London.

"Junior? What's going on?" Dad asked. "You didn't get kicked out again, did you?"

"No, Dad," Tony said, controlling his fury. "I was wondering where you are. Nobody's come to pick me up."

"What?"

"It's the start of Thanksgiving break, Dad!"

"Oh, that. Um, can't you tag along with somebody?"

"They all left! I was waiting for _you_!"

"Okay, lemme talk to somebody who works there, Junior. I'll get this sorted out."

Tony handed the phone to Chief Parens, who grunted a few times and then said, "Not a problem, sir."

"So?" Tony asked.

"So, he said he gives authorization for you to go home with whoever you like."

"Everybody _left already_!"

"Easy, I'm only a Master Chief," Parens said. "And Marshall's still here. I seem to remember hearing you and him get along."

"He's here?" Tony asked in amazement. "Where the hell is he?"

"Flight out got delayed like the flight in, so I went to show off my room to Josh," a familiar voice said from the doorway to the TAC office.

"You were showing him your fucking room all this time?" Tony asked. "How long does that take? Were you watching the paint dry?"

"Paint drying is underrated," Joshua Marshall said, coming into view in the doorway as well. He held a green, military-issue duffel bag and was dressed in jeans and a tan winter jacket. He nodded to Tony. "So, you wanna grab your gear?"

Tony stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I just got off the horn and got us a different flight," Josh said. "I'm Chris' legal guardian right now, so, if you feel lucky you can sign on with me."

"In plain English," Marshall said, "would you like to come stay at lovely Camp Lejeune, North Carolina for the next week, DiNozzo?"

Some sort of explosion took place in the pit of Tony's stomach. He scoffed, though, determined to remain nonchalant. "Well, I guess I could, if you insist."

"Oh, wanna play games?" Joshua Marshall said. "I'll leave you here, my friend."

"No, no, that's okay," Tony said, grabbing his bag. "Uh, see you, Chief."

"Yeah, whatever. Have a good break, DiNozzo."

"I hope you won't miss me too much, boys," Sergeant Major Ambrose said, grinning at the three of them, speaking in that voice that sounded like a tank engine turning over.

"Uh, I'll definitely miss you a lot, Sergeant Major," Marshall said, nodding. "Yep. Plenty."

"I can feel the sincerity from here, Mr. Marshall."

"Thanks for keeping 'em in line, Sergeant Major," Josh said.

"Not a problem, sir," Ambrose replied, heading out. "Stay out of trouble, boys."

"Oh, Captain, I need you to sign for this," Parens called from the TAC office. He threw a clipboard clear through the doorway at Joshua, who caught it, filled out and signed something, then threw it right back. "Don't overdo it, Chief."

"I'll try, sir. Make sure those two knuckleheads don't."

"We'll see, Chief," Joshua answered with a laugh.

 **XX**

Coach Tanner had evidently heard about the minor crisis, because he was waiting outside with that odd little French car of his. The two Marshalls plus Tony got in and they got express service to T.F. Green Airport, with Coach Tanner narrating the last two weeks while Joshua listened appreciatively. The younger Marshall laughed occasionally, adding his own commentary, seeming to relish the whole thing. As rough as his first days at Remington had been, Tony felt better with those days behind him, and his foothold at this dump much more clearly in place. He had an ally in his coach and in the younger Marshall, and maybe in the older Marshall, too.

So Tony relaxed and participated in the conversation on the way to the airport in the same easygoing way that the senior enlisted cadet did, making no big deal of any of it. The two Marshalls and Coach Tanner all needled Tony about this and that, gave him grief about being a troublemaker, but they didn't seem to really mean anything by it.

Tony still didn't quite believe what was happening until they were at the airport checking in, and Christian Marshall got on a payphone to inform his dad that he and Josh had picked up a guest. Marshall turned around and saw Tony sitting there, looking at him with some telling expression on his face, and smiled reassuringly. "It's all good, Tony. You're going home with me and Josh. It's really happening."

"Just a little hard to believe," Tony admitted. He was all-too-used to either being forgotten, or to being picked up from school and then ignored- or forgotten, in other words. Already, this felt different from that. It felt like somebody gave a shit, and that was not exactly the norm with DiNozzo Senior.

"Believe it," Christian Marshall said. "Hey. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure, I do," Tony replied.

Marshall smiled. "Good."

* * *

 **A/N: 1-28-2018.**

 **Chapter Five is completed. It may be a while between chapters, given how much else exists to keep me busy. But I will get to this as often as I can. Hopefully, it will be completed in 2018. Otherwise, 2019 for sure. We'll see.**

" **Guidon" is a small pennant flag used as the banner of individual military units. The colors carried by the Color Guard- the school flag, the Rhode Island state flag, the United States flag- are not guidons, just flags.**

 **It is tough striking the right balance between telling things from Tony's perspective and the perspective of Mark Golan and the others in Honor Corps. And it's necessary to have mention of and appearances by numerous other supporting characters. But so far, I've alternated back and forth in a pattern that seems to work. Hopefully I can continue to do so effectively.**

 **Something to remember: I have made virtually all of this up. "Cadence" or S12E14, depicted very little of Anthony DiNozzo Jr. back when he was attending RMA in the 1980s, what I estimated to be 1986-1987. We know that Mark Golan existed, but my depiction of the character is completely made up. Other than that he's a member of Honor Corps and is about as bullheaded as Tony, we know nothing about him. Since I was aiming to write a feature-length story, I obviously had to do more than what the story gave me, so I made a ton of things up. My backstory on Golan is based off my modern-day depictions of him as a rising senior officer in the U.S. Air Force.**

 **I would have liked to have based my story more directly on the NCIS episode itself, but as I said, they gave me so little to work with, I had to just make up my own story and integrate the few canon details as best I could, which was and is my aim.**

 **Reviews are always welcome. One sentence, a paragraph, whatever you like. I welcome all feedback. I only ask that it be polite and constructive, but that is still a request and not an order.**

 **If you spot any errors, inconsistencies, typos or plot issues, feel free to point them out. A personal message is just as good as a review for that, but it's up to any readers which means to use.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Tony couldn't quite believe he was out of Remington. It was too good to be true. There was always the off chance the school might have had a skeleton crew over the Thanksgiving break, so maybe he wouldn't have been put out on the street if the Marshall brothers hadn't intervened… but Tony would have sooner lived on the damn street for a week than stayed at that trash heap by himself.

Elated at being rescued, Tony talked animatedly about it to Marshall and his older brother, and they humored him some. After a little while, though, Chris- Tony had needed to start thinking of them by their first names to avoid confusing himself- turned the subject to movies, and Tony was pleasantly surprised to learn they both were big movie watchers. Tony said his goal was to pretty much be Ferris Bueller at Remington, and Chris responded, "I already am."

Tony took that as a challenge.

The flight stopped in D.C., and the party of three had to disembark and board another aircraft. Tony griped about it, but only a little. He was distracted by an argument he was having with Chris about whether Remington was completely or only mostly a dump, and Chris was responding by naming trophies the school's athletics teams had won, and specifically he kept bringing up the big shutout victory over New York Military Academy in 1944, which was repeated in 1978, Josh's senior year at Remington.

Since this quickly led into a general argument about sports statistics, Tony was delighted to find Chris was quite an athlete, indeed. He loved not just basketball, but any game he could get his hands on. He played baseball when the weather was good, soccer anytime he felt like it, football and hockey if the chance came up and he wasn't busy doing something else. Tony was amazed at how much Chris knew about each of those sports, and how easily he could cite coaches, specific games and their final scores, and notable athletes to support points he was making.

Altogether, the time passed pleasantly as the second leg of the flight took them down to Charlotte, North Carolina, where they got off and boarded a third airliner, this one going to the Albert J. Ellis Airport in Maple Hill. Tony and Chris noticed a few good-looking girls near them during that last flight, and proceeded to amuse themselves, the girls, and Josh by flirting with the girls for about half the flight.

 **XX**

It was well after dark when the small jet airliner touched down at the airport. Tony and Chris immediately started chatting up the girls from the plane, but Josh came up behind them and grabbed both boys by the collars, dragging them away. They both protested and argued, but Josh just kept walking along. The girls looked disappointed, but Tony wasn't entirely sure. He was trying to pry himself loose from the grip of a Marine captain, and that was a task that required your full attention.

When Josh finally let go of them, they were pretty much at the baggage claim area. Tony managed to wrestle himself free, but he had the feeling Josh had decided to let him go, because Chris got loose at the same time.

"Was that _really_ necessary?" Tony asked indignantly, drawing himself up to his full height.

"Yeah, sure," Josh answered.

"Well, what if I wanna kick your ass?"

Josh grinned, then put on a stern expression. "I know what you're thinkin'. Do I need six PFC's to take this captain, or only five? But bein' that I'm Joshua Marshall, the toughest son-of-a-bitch in the Corps, and could punch your head _clean off_ , you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"

Tony backed up as Josh moved closer to him, unable to tell if the well-built Marine officer was kidding or not. He stared uncertainly up at him for a few moments, then said, "Uh, that's a really good Eastwood impression."

Josh's posture relaxed at once. "Course it is," he said, and went back to looking at the baggage claim.

"Hey, Tony, think fast!"

Tony turned at the sound of Chris' voice and was met with an incoming suitcase. He put out his hands but just grabbed it as it impacted his stomach, knocking the air out of him and putting him on his ass.

Chris appeared over Tony, laughing as Tony struggled to get his wind back. "You gotta react quicker than that, pencil-dick!"

"Fuck. You."

"Aw, I'm hurt, Tony. I thought we were friends."

Tony couldn't speak, but he could use his legs, so he swung one out and tried to knock Chris off his feet. The other teen noticed, but only managed to move in time to take the hit on one leg, so he hopped forward and then fell over, landing on Tony. They immediately startled wrestling, and Tony was startled at just how strong Chris was. He wasn't kidding about being a big fitness nut. He was lean, like basketball players tended to be, but what he had was pretty much all muscle.

That was fine. Tony had never really neglected the weight room, either, and he fought back with all he had. They were still struggling for dominance when Josh came over, pulled Chris off Tony, and yanked them both to their feet.

"That's enough, boys."

"Aw, but Josh, we were just getting started!" Chris complained.

"Yeah, can't two guys even fight in peace anymore?" Tony griped, and the two teenagers shared a grin.

"You two think you're so funny," Josh said. "You better get your bags, or you can find your own way back from the airport."

 **XX**

The ride to Camp Lejeune came in the form of a dark metallic green boat of a car, a huge Cadillac with enormous chrome bumpers, a giant wraparound glass windshield, and whitewall tires as tall as a Honda. The Cadillac badge and the wide gold V sitting underneath it gleamed under the parking lot lights, as did what looked to be about six tons of finely-polished chrome, and two fins that rose over a foot off the rear deck of the car. It was a Cadillac as long as an aircraft carrier, and it probably handled like one, too. Tony didn't even want to picture the gas bill this thing ran up just driving to the airport, but it wasn't like anyone had cared about that in the Fifties. Back then, gas had been as cheap as tap water.

"Cadillac Fleetwood," Chris pronounced, noticing Tony as he sized up the massive car. "1957. One of 24,000 sold altogether. Her color is Arlington Green Metallic, if you were wondering."

"And here I thought it was Fifties Chrome."

"You think you're so smart," Chris said, shaking his head at Tony.

"I _am_ smart," Tony said.

"No, Tony, you're _really_ not."

"So it's Tony, now?"

"Well, I did so love it when you started calling me Chris," the redhead replied.

"What was I gonna do, stuck on an airplane with two jackasses called Marshall?"

"You know, I bet I could get you in touch with your Dad, and we could leave you here," Josh offered.

"I'd rather get kicked in the fucking balls," Tony replied, heading for the car.

"Easy, champ," Josh said, waving Tony back. "Not gonna do you any good to pull on this big chrome handles unless they're unlocked." He dug out his keys, inserted one of them into the driver's door keyhole, which, unlike a lot of cars now, was located below the door handle. After Josh turned the key to one side, a chrome button popped up, and Josh opened a very large and sturdy-looking door. He reached for some controls, all of which were chrome, and three more buttons popped up on the other doors, and then the trunk lid, which had to be about as wide as the state of Texas, popped up.

"All right," Josh said. "Throw the bags in and let's go."

 **XX**

Tony and Chris both decided to take spaces on the second of the two black-and-seafoam-green sofas that passed as the car's bench seats. Even with two teenage boys, there looked to be room for most of the seniors at RMA in the back seat alone. The Cadillac's 6-liter, fuel-injected V8 started up almost immediately, and after letting it warm up for a few minutes, Josh started the half-hour drive to Camp Lejeune.

"God, what the _fuck_ is _up_ with those _airline seats_?" Chris suddenly burst out, stretching his legs out and slouching down on the bench seat. "My knees! Do they even _care_ about them? I thought I was gonna _scream_!"

"Well, let's do it now," Tony suggested matter-of-factly, and they did, probably damaging Josh's eardrums.

"Gosh, guys, thanks," Josh said sarcastically. "As if the Marines haven't made me deaf enough."

"Hey, Josh, give us a cigarette, will you?" Chris asked. "I'm dying, boy."

"You know the answer to that one."

"You don't ask, you never know," Chris said, shrugging and giving Tony a wink. "Well, how about a box of condoms?"

"Jesus, did you go through the last bunch _already_?"

"I need-"

"What you need," Josh said, "is to start thinking about finding a fiancée-"

"Oh, what, fucking just _one_ hot girl?" Chris protested. He paused and winked at Tony again. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Chris, how you haven't caught something, I have no idea."

"I just know how to pick 'em."

Tony was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe. He managed to take a breath, looked at Chris and said, "You know something? You're crazy!"

"Yeah!" Chris agreed. "Cause I've practiced!"

 **XX**

There was only one word for Tony's first impression of the Marshall brothers: cool. They both loved working out, playing basketball, watching movies, hitting the beach, having fun with girls- they were Tony's kind of people. They also seemed determined to never completely grow up and would bicker and argue like little kids about the oddest things. There was just an air about them that if you stuck around long enough, you'd probably have fun, even if you didn't remember all of it the next day.

It was wonderful, getting to know these guys while riding in a 30-year-old Cadillac that looked like it had rolled off the showroom floor a couple of weeks ago, tops. Tony was more into sports, movies and girls than he was cars, but the Fleetwood was a real piece of work. Already, Tony was thinking about when the weather warmed up, and how much fun it would be to spend Spring Break, 1987 seeing how many girls he could pick up in this car on some beach in the Carolinas. Well, him and Chris, obviously. That was only fair.

What Tony appreciated most was that he already felt welcome. He had just walked into their lives, yet Chris and Josh seemed glad to bring Tony on Thanksgiving Break with them, a time normally spent with family only. It was hard to admit it, but Tony felt grateful. His own Dad had fucked him over yet again, left him to just manage on his own, practically acted like his son didn't even exist. But the Marshall brothers had helped Tony without hesitation.

Tony and Chris started arguing football in the last few minutes of the drive. Tony liked Pittsburgh while Chris was a die-hard New York Giants fan. They started playing grab-ass games, then punching each other, taking advantage of the fact that 1957 was a time when seatbelts basically didn't exist. Josh barked at them as he slowed down, approaching the front gate, and both teens shut up immediately. Chris retrieved his dress hat from the floor and dug Tony's out from where it had wound up under the seat. They were panting a little, trying not to giggle like kids.

"Shit, Gibbs is on duty tonight," Josh hissed under his breath. He hit the control button to lower the driver's door window and turned around and stared at the two teens. "You motherfuckers shut up right now or I swear to God-"

"Who the hell is Gibbs?" Tony asked, confused.

Before Josh could reply, he had to turn quickly around and cut the headlights off, and then stop the car before he ran into the gate barrier. The boat-car lurched forward, rocked back on its springs, then settled.

If the stern-faced, dark-haired Marine standing near the window noticed anything unusual, he didn't say a word. Tony was suddenly very glad he was on the far side of the car, because this guy, dressed in the same mottled BDU camouflage uniform that the boys wore at Remington and sporting a black, white-lettered MP armband on his right arm, looked like he had even less tolerance for bullshit than that son-of-a-bitch Gunny Ellison. He snapped off a flawless salute to Josh and said, "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Camp Lejeune."

"Staff Sergeant Gibbs," Josh said in greeting, returning the salute. "How glad I am you're in charge of the MPs at the gate tonight. My boys in A Company, 2nd Tank Battalion sleep soundly in their little houses tonight thanks to Marines like you."

The staff sergeant just stared at Josh with an impatient expression. Or, what Tony guessed was his impatient face. This dude seemed to have virtually no facial expressions at all. Josh started to talk some more, prattling on like he and Gibbs were best buddies, but Gibbs broke in with a polite but firm "Skip to the part I care about, sir."

"Well, Staff Sergeant, I'd like to get onto the base."

"Who've you got back there?" Gibbs asked, taking out a sturdy-looking flashlight and moving toward the Cadillac's rear left window. Chris and Tony both winced as they got a face full of white light, and put up their arms to shield themselves.

"Just my kid brother and his idiot friend, Staff Sergeant," Josh said easily. "They're too dumb to be a threat to the base."

"You got your ID with you, sir?" Gibbs asked, returning to the front window.

"I do, Staff Sergeant," Josh said, handing his card up.

"Captain Marshall," Gibbs stated, reading the card. He handed it back and saluted. "Please proceed."

"I believe I will, thank you kindly, Staff Sergeant," Josh said, returning the salute. The gate arm went up, and Josh got the Cadillac going, cutting the lights on once they were through the gate and away from the MP's. He raised the window, and then returned to keeping both hands on the giant steering wheel.

"So who was that?" Tony asked.

"A real hardass MP, that's who," Josh answered. "At least he didn't put an RVI on us. He's famous for them."

"RVI?" Tony asked.

"Random Vehicle Inspection," Chris answered. "The military police gotta search a vehicle every so often. Nobody knows how often except them. But some MP sergeants, they like to order RVI's all the time."

"And since you don't live here, DiNozzo," Josh said, "they'd have to strip-search you."

"Oh, well, as long as it's _female_ MP's that do that, I'm fine with it," Tony said. Josh laughed and Chris cracked up.

 **XX**

Camp Lejeune was the first military base Tony had ever been to. It was extremely neat and well-organized, with not a single piece of trash lying in the gutter or one blade of grass taller than what regulations specified. Josh drove the giant Cadillac past a couple of brick buildings clearly designed with an emphasis on function over form, then a long chain-link fence containing rows of olive-drab trucks parked so close together there was no way you could possibly open the doors on most of them. The trucks dwarfed even the Cadillac, especially when a convoy of them rode by a minute later, giving Tony an even better look at them.

"This place is, uh, neat," Tony said, adding a laugh.

"It's a Marine Corps base," Josh said. "No bullshit makes it past the gate. Everything is done to the standard here."

"Josh, if no bullshit gets past the gate, how the fuck did Tony get in?"

The Marshall brothers enjoyed a laugh over that one while Tony tried to act angry and punch Chris a couple times. Chris just took the first blows on his shoulder, then expertly blocked Tony's next few attacks. "Come on, come on, take it easy," he said, laughing.

After a few turns here and there, they started going past what looked like miles of identically-hideous barracks, all of which looked like they hailed from around 1942 and were purpose-designed to be ugly. Then they started going past one cookie-cutter section of apartment housing after another, then finally some actual houses. Eventually, Josh pulled into the driveway of one of them, behind a black Chevrolet Camaro convertible, a blue GMC Suburban, and an OD green Chevrolet Blazer.

"The Camaro's mine," Chris said. "She can kick ass on the road, lemme tell you. Better than this old dinosaur."

"A dinosaur that eats Camaros for breakfast," Josh retorted. He shifted into park and switched the keys in the slot on the dashboard, and the Cadillac's giant V8 dwindled into silence. "Okay. I'm gonna see you idiots inside, and then I'm outta here."

"Aw," Tony said as he opened his door and got out. "I was enjoying this, too."

"Oh, stick with me and you'll enjoy a lot more," Chris said, coming over to Tony and throwing an arm around his shoulders. "You'll forget all about your stupid father and actually have a good time, don't even worry."

"Fun? On an army base? Is that even allowed?"

"Marine base," Chris and Josh corrected simultaneously.

"Jinx," Tony said. "You both owe me a beer."

"How 'bout I get us laid instead?" Chris asked slyly.

"Can't we have both?" Tony asked.

"Now, you're talking."

Josh got the luggage out of the Cadillac and closed the trunk lid with a heavy-sounding thunk. "Take your bags. I'm so sick of listening to horny teenagers make plans for the weekend."

"Josh, aren't you basically just in charge of horny teenagers? What's a junior enlisted Marine if not a horny teenager?"

"Did you literally not hear me just now?"

They headed up to the front door, and Josh unlocked it and started back to his car.

"You're not coming in?" Tony asked, turning towards him.

"Nah," Josh said. "I got my own house. Dad's at some bullshit conference up in DC, he'll be back in the morning. I'll see you guys then. Don't burn the place down; it's Marine Corps property."

Chris adjusted his dress hat atop his head. "We'll try not to overdo it."

"I'm sure," Josh said, opening the door of the Cadillac.

"Thanks," Tony said. "Really."

Josh looked up just as he was about to get into the car. He smiled. "Sure, DiNozzo."

"Tony's fine, I mean, whatever. I'm not a big military guy."

"Whatever, whoever you are. See you tomorrow."

Josh got in and started the Cadillac. 300 horses kicked over instantly, giving an already menacing-looking car an appropriate soundtrack. The enormous car backed out of the driveway, straightened out, then leveled out and accelerated down the street.

"All right, come on in," Chris said, going to the door of the two-story Colonial. He reached over to a wall and flicked on some lights. He removed his dress hat, and yanked Tony's off and handed it to him.

Tony stepped inside and was instantly impressed with how precisely neat and orderly everything was. The hardwood floors were buffed and waxed to a high mirror shine. The beige-painted walls were spotless, and the various framed pictures, portraits, paintings, diplomas and award citations were hung perfectly, not even one degree off to the left or right. Nothing was lying around, or out of place. Chris led Tony down the hall and turned on the lights to a perfectly-ordered kitchen. Spotless, shining vinyl countertops, meticulously-polished wood cabinets… it was enough to remind Tony of the Honor Corps, and their all-consuming obsession with order.

Something of that thought must have showed, because Chris said, "You're a thousand miles away from any of those pricks right now, DiNo-Tony. This house looks like this because my Dad's a Marine, and I'm a Marine brat. It ain't because I'm in some freaky club."

"Are you sure?" Tony asked, making it sound like a joke.

"You trust me, right?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

"Then you know I'm sure. Fair enough?"

"Yeah, yeah."

Marshall stared for a moment, then laughed. "Okay, smart guy. Let's get you to your room."

Tony hefted his bag and followed the redhead back down the entrance hall. He glanced right into the living room, then walked in through the doorway. There was what looked like (hopefully) a color TV, a VHS tape player, a brown sofa with end tables on either side, each one bearing the Marine Corps seal on the center. A red Marine flag hung over the sofa, and across the room, over the television, was a three-by-five framed poster of a group of men in World War II-era uniforms raising an American flag.

"Raising the flag on Iwo Jima," Chris said. "Dad was there. He was fifteen when he joined the Corps." He paused. "I shouldn't have told you that."

"Why?" Tony asked.

"Dad lied about his age when he enlisted. He's safe now, but… if that came up, they'd have to kick him out for fraudulent enlistment."

"Well, I'm not gonna tell anybody. It's not like I know anyone in the Marines, anyway." Tony realized something, then looked at Chris and said, "Wait, your dad was at Iwo Jima?"

"Yeah. He was there for the whole battle, right in the middle of all the shit. Anyhow, he wasn't one of the guys who raised the flag, but, he saw it happen. So that's about as good, right?"

"Yeah, sure," Tony laughed. "But I mean- he's been in since when?"

"1944. This is his 42nd year in the Marine Corps."

Tony stared. "Forty-two _years_? Is this guy insane?"

Chris grinned. "We all are. Every Marine, every Marshall. You've been kidnapped by _madmen_ , DiNozzo."

Tony laughed. "Yeah, I think you kidnapped the wrong guy. My Dad would need like a _year_ to notice, and he's too cheap to pay a ransom anyway."

Chris looked at Tony for a moment. "What kind of way is that to talk about yourself?"

"I'm talking about _him_."

"Just because he's too fucking stupid to care doesn't mean everyone is."

Tony put on a smirk. "Are you trying to make me cry?"

"Is it working?"

"Nah, I'm gonna opt out, 'cause I'm a big boy," Tony cracked. Chris laughed.

"Okay, so, you wanna see your room? Or how 'bout my room, then your room? Yeah. Let's do that."

 **XX**

Up the wooden stairs and around a corner were Chris' room, which, much to Tony's surprise, looked like a moderately more organized version of the stereotypical teenage kid's room. There were several model sports cars, a set of dumbbells, a few beautiful women in bikinis in posters. Tony spotted a Tron movie poster, plus one from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. There was also a Marines flag above the bed, a Marines recruiting poster, plus one of Chris as a first sergeant in full dress uniform on a RMA recruiting poster.

"Man, you really love this military shit, don't you?" Tony asked, looking around.

"What do you think?" Chris replied, grinning. "Look, it'd be all sports cars and naked chicks of I had my way, but there's a sergeant major in charge of this house and it's not me." He put his bag down, then headed back out the door. "Come on, let's go see your room."

Tony's room was a plain, neatly-organized bedroom with a maroon comforter, like Chris' room had. It honestly looked like a hotel room, which didn't exactly have a positive connotation with Tony, given the number of times Dad had left him behind in one and then had to come get him when the hotel staff called, and reminded him his fucking kid was still in the room.

"Look, I couldn't exactly decorate it to your liking," Chris said. "To do that, I'd have to know what you like."

"Girls," Tony said immediately.

"Okay, okay, I could've put up some posters of, like, chicks in bikinis or something," Chris admitted. "But until today, I didn't even know you were gonna be here for break."

Tony headed to the bed, dropped his bag, and unbuttoned his gray dress uniform jacket. He sat down, looking up at Chris. "Yeah. You could have. So I think you should make it up to me."

"Yeah, like I said, we're both gonna get laid. I guarantee it."

"Oh, yeah?" Tony asked, interested but trying to look and sound nonchalant. "How?"

"Soon, Tony, soon," Chris said, smirking.

Tony took off the gray jacket, tossed that aside, and soon got rid of his tie, dress shirt, and kicked off his dress shoes. Chris leaned against the wall, watching him.

"You like watching guys undress?"

"Oh, I get to see it all the time whether I _like_ to or not."

"Yeah, I know," Tony said. " _God_ , am I glad to be away from that fucking school."

"You look pretty sharp in that dress uniform, though," Chris replied.

"That's cause of this."

Tony took off his white t-shirt, revealing the strong upper body he'd spent years refining. He was close to a full six-pack, and his pectorals, shoulders, biceps and triceps were all sculpted and well-defined. He'd gotten a lot of attention anytime he went swimming or hit a beach in recent years. Tony was also just a handsome guy to begin with, something he was quite proud of.

Chris laughed. "Yeah, okay, handsome. I'll show you. Gimme a second here." Chris proceeded to take off the upper components of his dress uniform with surprising speed. When he pulled his shirt off, Tony instantly felt a rush of jealousy.

The redhead was about as fit was it was possible to be at seventeen. He was lean, but had a sharply-defined six-pack set of abs, broader shoulders, virtual slabs of muscle on his pecs, and noticeably more muscular arms and shoulders than Tony did. If Tony enjoyed working out, Chris lived for it, was obsessed with it. He could have passed for a Marine fresh out of recruit training.

There was a long, ugly, centipede-shaped scar on the inner part of Chris' left shoulder that Tony hadn't seen before. Chris noticed that Tony noticed, and grinned with boyish pride. "Surgery on my shoulder sophomore year. But go ahead, Tony, look all you want."

Tony laughed. "Okay, Muscles Marshall. Let's see how many pushups you can do."

"Let's go to a hundred. See who gets there first," Chris said, an eager, competitive gleam in his eye.

"You're on," Tony said, dropping to the floor and assuming what they called the "front leaning rest position" at Remington. Chris followed a second later. "Go!"

Tony threw himself into it gladly, determined to show off and prove himself better than Chris. But he'd underestimated the redhead again, as it turned out. Tony knocked out the reps fast, but Chris was moving faster. Tony didn't slow down as he counted towards 100- he was in excellent shape and could handle this easily-but he still had seventeen to go when Chris announced "A hundred!" and stood up.

When Tony stood up a few moments later, he was glaring at Chris, who just grinned at him. "What? You think you're gonna show me up, tough guy? Huh? I'll go again!"

Chris held up a hand. "I like your attitude, but nah, I'm good. We better get to bed, though."

"Yeah, I guess," Tony said. "So, where's the bathroom?"

"You're gonna go jerk off, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well, where's the bathroom?"

"It's out this door," Chris said, pointing. "Then, you go right past the stairs, see? And then, on the left, you'll have this door, and-"

"Okay, okay. Whatever, man. I can find the bathroom. I just wanna get outta this damn uniform."

"Better hang it up in the closet," Chris advised. "You'll need it when we fly back."

"Do we really _have_ to?" Tony asked, groaning.

"Yeah, we kinda do," Chris laughed. "Unless you wanna get your dad to sign a waiver so you can drop outta high school and join the Corps."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Then we'll just make the best of it. You and me are gonna hit the gym a lot while you're here. We're gonna have fun, Tony. Don't you worry."

"Oh, good," Tony said. "Yeah. I was afraid I was gonna be bored."

"You see what you're doing here, Tony?"

"Showing you how much better I am?" Tony asked, gesturing at his bare chest.

"Of course, that," Chris said. "But how? You're trying to make me like you."

Tony scoffed, smiling. "Yeah, sure I am."

"And you know what?" Chris continued. "It's working; I do. But you see what _I'm_ doing?" He winked. "I'm trying to make you like me, too."

 **XX**

After taking a nice, long hot shower, Tony took care of some 'private business' and walked back to his room in a clean pair of boxers. He lay down on his bed and turned out the lights, feeling surprisingly relaxed. He was a thousand miles from that stupid military school and its creepy little cult of zealots. He'd found someplace to stay for the break. Dad didn't fucking care where he was or what he was doing, so if Tony had his way, he was going to hit half the gyms and screw half the pretty girls in North Carolina.

The fun part was, it sounded like that was what Chris had planned for both of them already.

 **XX**

It was still dark when somebody started pounding on his door. Tony stuck his head under the pillow and hoped they would go away. After a minute or so, they did. Or at least the noise stopped. Tony didn't care. He was dreaming about him, a girl on a beach, and the clothes were just starting to come off…

One side of the mattress was suddenly yanked upward, and Tony opened his eyes suddenly as he tumbled to the floor. The lights came on, and Tony looked up to see Joshua Marshall, dressed in an olive-drab t-shirt and shorts, standing near the light switch while Chris Marshall, also dressed in an OD t-shirt and pair of shorts, stood grinning down at him on the other side of the bed.

"You got 'im!" Josh exclaimed.

"I got 'im!" Chris agreed.

"Stop _doing_ that!" Tony yelled at him.

Chris responded by rushing around to Tony, slapping at any part of the brown-haired teen that he could reach. "Up, up, up! Wake up! On your feet, DiNozzo! Get up, get your feet planted on the deck!"

"I'm trying to sleep here, fuck off!"

"He said get up!" Josh screamed, coming over to yell in Tony's other ear. "You get up right now, DiNozzo, or I'll use your dead body to grease the treads of my tanks! GET UP! Get down to that head and shave!"

Tony protested, swatted at the two guys irritably, cursed at them, but none of it did any good. Tony got up, grabbed the comforter, and stuck his head back under the pillow, but the mattress was up-ended again and Tony was dumped to the floor. Finally, he got up and ran down the hall to the bathroom, trying to at least get away from the yelling idiots with the red hair.

"Take your fuckin' hygiene bag!" Chris shouted, throwing the bag in through the opening just before Tony shut the door.

"You got five minutes, DiNozzo!" the Josh yelled. "Make it count! It's a great day to be a Marine and we're not gonna waste a second of it!"

"Ooh-rah, motherfucker!" Chris yelled, and the two Marshalls grunted out in the hallway. Tony had the sense they'd just chest-bumped each other.

Staggering up to the sink, Tony looked at his reflection, wondering just what kind of crazy people he'd been suckered into living with. Even if Chris wasn't in the Honor Corps, he was with the Marines, and from what Tony knew at whatever ungodly hour this was, they were all certifiably insane.

Figuring he had little choice since he was in the hands of these crazy people, Tony went ahead and did his morning hygiene. He shaved so his face was smooth, clean and handsome, just the look he liked. He brushed his teeth, used some mouthwash, and was just using his deodorant when Chris slammed the door open and started yelling again.

"You're too slow! Put these on!" Chris threw an OD t-shirt and shorts at Tony, then pulled the door closed again.

Tony looked at the shirt, spotted the black Marine Corps logo painted on its left breast. Oh, fuck the hell no, I'm not putting that on! As cold as this tiled floor is, I don't even wanna know what it is outside!

"I'm not wearing this!" Tony shouted.

"Yes, you are!"

"No, I am not!"

"It's that or you run PT naked, DiNozzo!" Josh yelled. "Make a choice!"

Tony sighed and finished using his deodorant, then bagged everything up and reluctantly pulled on the t-shirt and PT shorts. He exited the bathroom, and was immediately set upon by the two Marshall brothers, who chased him back to his room and shouted at him while he pulled on a pair of white socks. Tony was about to go for his sneakers when Josh hurled a box at him.

"Brand-new Nikes, DiNozzo! They're yours! Put the fuckin' shoes on!"

Tony looked at the shoes. They weren't just Nikes, they were the Spirodon Gold shoes Tony had been trying to get Dad to buy! White all over, gray underneath, and sporting a sewn-on gold Nike "check mark" that flared up and wrapped around the back on either side, they had the distinctive look and smell of a new pair of shoes. The Spiridon Gold was Tony's favorite in the 1986 line of Nike shoes, and he didn't know a teen athlete in the world who could resist a good pair of Nikes.

The brown-haired teen picked up one of the shoes, a goofy smile coming onto his face. "Uh, you guys woke me up to give me some shoes?"

"We woke you up to go run!" Josh yelled at him. "Put the fucking shoes on!"

"All right, I'll put the shoes on."

 **XX**

Having managed to mostly wake up, Tony raced downstairs and out the front door with Chris and Josh 'encouraging' him all the way. It was probably 40 degrees out, tops, and in shorts and a t-shirt, Tony didn't much feel like being outside, but Chris and Josh weren't about to let him back in.

Tony turned from looking wistfully at the front door of the house and noticed the man standing on the front lawn. He was in the same OD uniform, and had his arms crossed imposingly over a barrel-like chest. Brown eyes peered out from under iron-gray hair, and although the man was more than twice Tony's age, the brown-haired teen hesitated at the idea of trying to take this man in a fight.

"That took too long," the man said, in a voice a lot like Sergeant Major Ambrose's- a deep voice, strengthened and roughened by years of shouting. "You people are too slow."

"Aw, hell, Dad, think about how it feels for us. We all had to get up and come out here and look at your ugly mug and it's not even 0600."

"If your brain was as quick as your mouth, Captain, you'd be a fuckin' twenty-star general by now."

"And if I was as ugly as you, Sergeant Major, I'd be a poster-boy for the wonders of cosmetic surgery."

"Still an arrogant, obnoxious bastard." The older man stood there scowling for a few seconds. Then his worn, leathery face broke into a grin. "God-damn good to see you, boys! I'm back where I belong!"

The older man exchanged fierce bear-hugs with Josh, then Chris, both of whom were clearly delighted to see him. Then he turned to Tony, who was watching all this uncertainly, wondering exactly why this had to occur prior to 6AM.

"So you must be Anthony DiNozzo," the man said, turning to Tony. He held out his hand. "My name is Sergeant Major Thomas Marshall, and I'm senior NCO of the 2nd Marine Division. Welcome aboard."

"Uh, I'm Tony DiNozzo, and I'm awake," Tony said.

The man smiled. "You made quite an impression on my sons. I think they kinda like you."

"I'd like 'em, too, if they hadn't woke me up like I was in boot camp."

The elder Marshall laughed, a deep, rich laugh that came from way down in his chest somewhere. "You're funny, DiNozzo. Think you're funny enough to run five miles with the 2nd Tank Battalion this morning?"

"Oh, gosh, how can I refuse?"

"Okay, boys, let's get started!"

 **XX**

Sergeant Major Marshall might have been nearing sixty, but he was one tough old bear. He led the other three guys in a series of warm-up stretches, then led the way on the run over to the collection of multi-story, hideous-looking brick-and-mortar barracks structures set up behind a rectangular wooden sign that featured a red circle painted on the center. On the circle was a white spade symbol with a black tank and a gray armored horse head imposed on it. It read:

 _2_ _ND_ _TANK BATTALION_

 _MASTERS OF THE IRON HORSE_

" _ACE IN THE HOLE"_

The three Marshalls stood there for a moment, surveying the serene quiet of the barracks area. Sergeant Major Marshall walked forward onto a long, wide paved area near the main parking lot, probably used for formations.

Then with a shout that battered Tony's eardrums and echoed off the barracks walls and windows, the man roared, "YOUR DIVISION SERGEANT MAJOR IS ALL ALONE OUTSIDE THE BARRACKS, 2nd TANKS!"

A second or two later, a whistle blew out of sight somewhere, then another. Doors began flying open, and first a dozen Marines in OD PT uniform appeared, running for the formation area at top speed. Then a dozen more, then fifty, then a hundred. Within five minutes, Tony was standing in front of close to a thousand Marines. He was suddenly glad he worked out so much; anybody less fit would have looked like a joke in front of these guys. They were all like Chris and Josh, who looked like they lived for exercise. It was probably a Marine thing.

Josh left to take his place at the head of A Company, whose position was marked by the young Marine bearing a guidon marked "A", standing at parade rest. Tony spotted Marines carrying guidons for B, C, and D companies.

A black-haired, broad-shouldered Marine with black hair just starting to turn steel gray came up to the elder Marshall, who saluted him.

"Good morning, sir," Sergeant Major Marshall barked out.

"Good morning, Sergeant Major," the man said. "Good day to me a Marine, isn't it?"

"Hell yes, sir!"

"I see you brought your boy. And a friend of his?"

"Yes, sir."

The man approached Tony, sizing him up. "A little more exercise and you might be able to fool a civilian in that uniform."

"It's good to meet you, too, sir," Tony said sarcastically.

The man laughed. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Halverson. And you are?"

"Tony DiNozzo."

"He goes to school with me, sir," Chris said.

"Ready to join my battalion on a run, DiNozzo?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"We'll take that as a yes," another older Marine said, coming up and shaking hands with Sergeant Major Marshall and Chris like they were old friends.

"Okay, better give this guy something to do," Halverson said to himself. He went up to the Marine carrying the 2nd Tanks guidon and said, "Fall in, Lance Corporal."

"Yes, sir." The young Marine handed over the guidon, saluted, and sprinted off to join one of the companies.

 _Oh, no. I'm already worried about freezing my nuts off in this shit, it's not even dawn yet, don't you even think about handing me that fuckin_ -

"Hereya go, DiNozzo," Halverson said, smirking. "You wanna run with 2nd Tanks, you better be ready to stay up front."

"Don't you worry about me," Tony shot back. "Sir."

Halverson took position in front of the battalion, and Chris stood beside Tony, showing him just where and how to stand. The companies took roll, then reported in to the battalion commander. Once all were present or accounted for, Halverson shouted, " _Good morning, Marines_!"

"GOOD MORNING, SIR!"

"Your division sergeant major would like you to join him on a 5-mile run! Anybody not wanna go?"

"NO, SERGEANT MAJOR!"

"Battalion! Atten-SHUN!"

The hundreds of men snapped ramrod straight instantly. Tony snapped to attention too, wondering just what he'd done to get his first day off from military school started like this.

"Right-FACE!"

Tony turned, and with Chris quietly guiding him moved into position with Lieutenant Colonel Halverson and Sergeant Major Marshall at the head of the column.

"Cold, Tony?" Chris asked, leering at him.

"You wish," Tony whispered back.

" _Double time_!" Sergeant Major Marshall shouted, and with that they were off.

 **XX**

The cold was merciless, and Tony had next to nothing on to protect against it. It was fucking cold, just ten degrees away from freezing. Were these guys all out of their tiny little minds? Who got up this early to run in weather this cold with this much enthusiasm?

Apparently, Marines did. Tony admired their enthusiasm for physical fitness, but he hated just about everything else. What in the hell was he doing up right now?

But after a mile or so, Tony's body began warming up, and even if the outside air didn't become comfortable, it at least became tolerable. The brand-new pair of Nikes made Tony's feet feel like they, at least, were having a good time. The Marines shouted cadences, led by either Sergeant Major Marshall or Lieutenant Colonel Halverson, and Chris shouted them out joyfully even as they went into the third mile.

These guys are all crazy. They're all fucking nuts. But be honest. Would you rather be stuck at some hotel with Dad right now?

The answer to that was easy. Tony decided to start shouting the cadences himself. Even if he wasn't really enjoying this, he'd sure as hell act like it.

Running five miles after doing maybe a mile or two a day at best was tough. Tony had to really push as they went on and on down the road, and he began to sweat, which just made the cold even worse. He was unwilling to let anybody here know he wasn't up for this, though. They thought they were tough? Tony was the definition of it.

Tony was still running steady up front, with almost a thousand Marines shouting cadence behind him, when Halverson called a halt to the run. The sun was just starting to come up, and the colonel called everyone to attention, then barked out, "Present-ARMS!"

Everyone in sight had stopped, even the people in vehicles. The national anthem had begun to play from loudspeakers, and in the distance, as the sun rose, a detail of Marines was raising the American flag. The familiar notes of the song blared, and Tony watched, saluting beside Chris, as the flag and the sun rose together over the base.

 **XX**

Tony was- whether he liked it or not- completely awake by the time the 5-mile run was finished. He had just done more running in one day than he'd ever done before, but Tony had made it, and he managed to hide any shortness of breath quickly as the entire battalion formed up to go into the mess hall that had apparently been designated as the run's destination.

Chris eagerly grabbed Tony and pulled him out of the line, practically shoving him into the mess hall ahead of everybody. Just as Tony was about to ask what was going on, he saw Halverson, Sergeant Major Marshall, and a man he soon learned was Sergeant Major Eldridge getting set up behind the serving line.

"What's this about?" Tony managed to ask.

"We're gonna serve these hungry Devil Dogs some chow, is what this is about," Chris said, like it was obvious.

"You're crazy," Tony said, as Chris steered him behind the counters. "You're nuts. You get that?"

"What'd I tell ya? I practice, man, I practice!"

 **XX**

Chris was just as well known to these Marines as he was to the boys at Remington. Everyone seemed to know him. Chris, like his dad, Lieutenant Colonel Halverson and Sergeant Major Eldridge, seemed to know the names and ranks of everybody in the battalion. Chris called out greetings, traded insults, boasted back and forth about recent sexual conquests, and barked out all kinds of creative twists on alpha-dog Marine slogans that the guys coming through the line seemed to think were hilarious.

"Semper Gumby, always flexible!"

"Sample Fries!"

"Good morning, Devilled Egg!"

"Another day to serve the Corpse!"

"Good morning, Devil Donut!"

"Here's some chopped up potatoes or something, Semper Paratus! Yeah, I know it's the motto of the fuckin' Puddle Pirates! Yeah, yeah, I know! Fuck you, Lance Corporal! I'll come over this serving counter!"

The two sergeants major and the battalion commander weren't quite so informal as that, but they seemed willing to let Chris get away with it. Everybody in this battalion clearly knew who Chris was, and liked him. He was their kid brother, their unofficial mascot.

Tony exchanged more basic greetings with the Marines at first, but they seemed used to challenging and insulting Chris and his friends, and their alpha-male "jock" attitudes made Tony warm up to them a bit. So, he started trading insults with them, too, boasting about how he could out-PT them. When A Company came through, Josh loudly repeated the story of how Tony had woken up this morning, much to the amusement of the listening Marines.

These were rough guys, used to talking roughly with each other, constantly competing and challenging each other as to who was the best. They were a lot like any team of athletes Tony had ever seen. He had no interest in living by the strict military rules that Marines had to, but it was fun to learn firsthand that these Marine tank crewmen were basically a bunch of jocks.

Chris spurned sitting with the battalion headquarters personnel, despite being invited to do so. Instead, he picked out a table full of privates and lance corporals, and profanity laced every sentence from the moment he sat down. Tony's buzz cut, athletic build, and cocky manner, added to the fact that he was in Marine Corps PT uniform, caused a young Marine to look quizzically over at him as Tony spotted Chris at a table and moved in to join him.

"So, who the fuck are you? You just get done at Knox, or what?"

"Davis," Chris said, "he goes to school with me."

"Oh. Yeah, I knew that."

"I bet you did," Tony said. "Anybody got any girlfriends feeling less-than-satisfied? I'm here for them all week."

That brought on a howl of laughter, and suddenly every Marine at the table was challenging Tony, asking him about his size, suggesting he maybe should go sit at the kids' table. Tony challenged and insulted right back. Chris seemed to be delighted about the whole thing. He caught Tony's eye at one point, and gave him a thumbs-up. Tony had more fun eating breakfast with 2nd Tanks than he would have expected. These guys were arrogant, obnoxious bastards- athletic, fiercely macho, supremely skilled at anything they did and extremely full of themselves. They were just like Chris, and surprisingly like Tony.

"You trying to make me wanna join up?" Tony asked jokingly at one point.

"Nah," Chris said. "I just wanted to bring you aboard this base in style."

 **XX**

The first day "aboard" Camp Lejeune passed quickly. Tony just about killed himself completing the five-mile run back, but he refused to admit to any weakness and insisted he was just acting like he was worn out, so he didn't embarrass everyone. Once he handed the battalion guidon off and the formation was dismissed, Josh left to go change into BDU's for the day and get to work. After a run back to the house, Sergeant Major Marshall also changed into BDU's. Before leaving for the day, he told Tony he was welcome to stay during the break, and that he should feel free to speak to any of three Marshalls if he ever needed anything.

Chris challenged Tony to another pushup contest immediately after his dad left, and Tony narrowly lost that one, as well. The redhead jumped up and beat his chest, making noises like he was some kind of primitive ape, upon winning the contest, and then calmly said, "Let's go hit the gym."

The fitness center they went to was a huge, cavernous space with all kinds of stations and weights. "It's about the only thing at Lejeune that isn't kinda shitty," Chris remarked. They spent almost two hours there, and although Chris encouraged a competitive spirit between them the whole time, he also assisted Tony, spotted for him, and gave him tips and pointers. Even with what Tony already knew, there were things Chris was still able to teach him.

During dinner at the elder Marshall's house, Tony was encouraged to talk about things that interested him, what he was liking about his new school so far, anything he wanted to. Chris, Josh and the brothers' adopted father all seemed quite interested in hearing what Tony had to say, and their concern about how he was doing seemed genuine, not perfunctory like Dad's pretty much always was. It was a nice change of pace.

After clearing everything up after dinner, Chris and Tony went for yet another run, pushing each other on the whole time by trading insults, bragging about their stamina and manliness. A few minutes in, Tony noticed some grinding and clanking going on in the distance, getting louder. Chris noticed, too, and moved them off the road.

A minute or so later, they showed up: a column of huge, growling tanks, their turrets cranked around so the guns faced backward.

"Whoo-hoo!" Chris screamed into the cool night air. "Semper Fi, motherfuckers! Yeah, yeah, come on, come on! Get some, boys! M60 Patton, best in the world! Get some!"

The tanks drove by, towering over the two boys, their diesel engines making almost as much of a racket as their treads and wheels. Chris kept shouting, pumping his fist in the air, the whole time the tanks drove by. One man riding in the turret of one of the tanks cupped his hands and shouted, "Fuck you, Chris!"

"Fuck you, Josh!" Chris shouted back.

As the tanks drove away into the night, Chris sighed. "Holy shit, man. Tanks are fucking awesome."

"You and your brother are so nice to each other."

"Oh, that? It's how we show our love, man. That's tough love, Tony. Tough love."

 **XX**

After running back to the house, the two boys argued over who would get to shower first, then settled it with a brief wrestling contest. Much to his amusement, Tony managed to pin Chris down just long enough to win, so he got to shower first. After taking care of 'business' and getting that handsome frame good and clean, Tony spent a few extra minutes standing on the bath mat, playing air guitar like he was in AC/DC. He wasn't about to admit it, but he was having a good time.

Tony thought about heading back to his room, but he instead went and waited in Chris' room while the redhead showered. When Chris came back, he looked a little surprised to see Tony waiting around, but just said evenly, "So what's up?"

"I wanna talk and bare my soul," Tony said sarcastically, grinning.

"Oh, yeah? Well, you've come to the right guy," Chris said. "Question, though- do both of us need to be in our underwear?"

"You live at a school where you see guys naked all the time. Are you seriously uncomfortable about us being in our underwear?" Tony asked him.

Chris considered that. "Well, I'm not a faggot or anything. But it just looks weird."

"I mean, I'm just being practical. I'm not getting all dressed up if I'm just going to bed in a minute."

"Okay, sure. So, what'd you wanna talk about?"

Tony shrugged. "Football."

 **XX**

They wound up talking about football, basketball, baseball, soccer, plus girls, sports cars and weightlifting. Chris was such a fun guy to talk to, always having smart remarks or witty replies to things, that Tony kept coming up with new topics just so he could see what Chris would say about it. Eventually, Sergeant Major Marshall came by and declared lights out, but they just closed Tony's door and pretended to be asleep.

What they did instead was keep talking. Chris assured Tony that they'd be having "a lot of fun" during break, and he did indeed have a plan for them to "keep some beds warm" tomorrow. Tony found himself believing that. Chris seemed like he could do damn near anything.

When Tony finally got up and went back to his room, it was well past the lights-out time. Chris assured Tony that now that he had been "welcomed aboard", he didn't have to do PT in the mornings unless he and Chris agreed to join in on it. Tony opted to sleep in, without getting tossed out of bed, and Chris said that would be fine, provided they were still up and at the gym by 8. Tony flipped the redhead the bird, and Chris blew a kiss back.

Back in the guest room, Tony did some pushups and then lay down on his bed. He stretched out and relaxed, smiling to himself. He was looking forward to the rest of this holiday break, and that was something he hadn't been able to say in a long time.

* * *

 **A/N: 2-11-2018.**

 **The 1986 film** _ **Heartbreak Ridge**_ **, the 1984 film** _ **Tank**_ **, and the 1971 film** _ **Dirty Harry**_ **are both referenced in this chapter. Sergeant Major Marshall is based significantly off Sergeant Major Zack Carey in** _ **Tank**_ **.**

 **The M60 Patton was the primary main battle tank in service with the U.S. Marine Corps in late 1986, to my knowledge. By that time it was being replaced in US service by the M1 Abrams, but the US Army got priority on the new tank. The last M60 Patton tanks were not removed from USMC service until the end of the Gulf War in 1991.**

 **I would like to say a special thank-you to Jenny wrens, who recently reviewed Chapter 1-5 of this story at my request. In return, I have been steadily reviewing her NCIS stories and will continue to do so as best I can. Jenny wrens, your reviews are greatly appreciated.**

 **Anyone who wishes to leave feedback may do so freely. I love to hear what I've been doing right, but if you find there's something you dislike or wish to criticize, feel free to do that as well. You can share your thoughts in a review, or send them to me in a PM. All I ask is that people be polite. I want candid, not canned opinions on my work, but good manners are important on any occasion.**

 **One suggestion for improvement Jenny wrens ran by me is decreasing the length of the chapters. So far, 10-12,000 words has been the average- around 30 pages. That is a bit much, honestly. So I managed to write just over 9,000 for this one, in an effort to cut down on the size of each chapter. 9k is still a good-sized chapter, but it's a step in the right direction. I am aiming to write a 7,000-8,000 word chapter for Chapter 7. This is a change I might not have even thought to make had Jenny wrens not pointed it out to me. Just goes to show how valuable feedback can be.**

 **The date at the end of this chapter is Saturday, November 22, 1986. In exactly seven days, Tony will be going back to military school, but that's off his mind right now.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

On Sunday, Chris and Tony woke up and, much to Tony's chagrin, soon put on their Remington dress uniforms to attend a Catholic service on the base alongside Josh and Sergeant Major Marshall, who wore their Marine dress blues. Tony mostly just went through the motions, but Chris appeared reverent and deeply moved. The boy who spurned the idea of commitment or monogamy and constantly bragged and boasted listened solemnly as the priest talked about the endless humility and wisdom of Jesus Christ, and how sex was to be only for procreation.

After the service ended, Chris and Tony were soon left on their own again as the elder two Marshalls headed off to do their duty for the day.

Tony liked the way Chris and his dad and older brother interacted. A lot of freedom was permitted to Chris, so long as he obeyed his older brother and his dad when they told him to do something. Chris had a generous allowance that came out of his dad's and his brother's monthly pay- $200, and he'd been given some extra because he had a guest around for this week.

Chris was able to take his Camaro anywhere he wanted during the day. Provided he was either back by midnight or informed his dad of any alternative arrangements, Chris could more or less do as he liked. It was a nice arrangement. Chris was trusted and treated like an adult, yet he always had his dad and older brother around if he needed them, and it was obvious that they cared where he was because they cared, period, not because they were trying to micromanage him.

It was interesting to see. Tony had no idea what that was like, himself. He could do as he liked, sure, but Chris didn't seem like he'd been forgotten about and left behind in a series of coffee shops, airports, hotels, train stations and art galleries over the years. Tony had experienced all that plenty of times. It didn't surprise him that Dad had just pawned him off on anybody who was willing to take him for Thanksgiving Break. He was probably off hobnobbing in Europe still, pretending to be one of the stars of the world of fine art collecting and trading.

What he was, in Tony's mind, was a huckster and scam artist, and generally just a fucking idiot. Tony didn't miss him. Chris' dad was being more of a parent to Tony than Dad had been in seventeen years. It wasn't that he'd really done anything huge himself; he was just doing a hell of a lot better than Dad, which was not hard.

As he hit the gym again with Chris, then played a game of basketball with a couple of Marine sergeants, Tony decided he wasn't even going to bother calling Dad to let him know where he'd wound up. Honestly, the odds of Dad trying to find out were not good. Tony was pretty much on his own. But given how much fun he could sometimes have on his own- at gyms, on basketball courts, with girls- Tony didn't mind that at all.

 **XX**

They didn't talk about school much, or about Honor Corps, or any of that crap- save for discussing the basketball team. Tony wasn't in the mood for much else. He was glad to forget it all while he could. Chris seemed to sense that, and so kept to talking about the basketball team only if he brought up Remington at all. But Chris did have that gold class ring on his right hand at all times, with the seal and motto prominently displayed: Verum Animus Officium. Truth, Valor, Duty.

It wasn't as if the motto was unique to the jerkoffs in Honor Corps, though. It was the motto of the whole school. And Chris was so nuts about the Marine Corps, Remington was probably just an additional chance at getting to live the military life and have some fun doing it. Chris' rank forced him to interact with all the top-ranked cadets often, so all in all, him wearing that ring constantly wasn't suspicious. Tony doubted any member of Honor Corps would have invited him home for break, either.

After a while, they headed out to a YMCA in Jacksonville and killed time at the pool, swimming around, showing off, and flirting with the girls. It was just over 70 degrees outside, so Chris suggested they head down to Surf City, thirty minutes away, and go surfing. Tony had some doubts about going surfing in November, but Chris assured him the water was a lot warmer down in North Carolina.

It was not, as Tony soon found out.

The boys were already in their swimming trunks and armed with their rented boards by the time Tony realized Chris had lied to him. A couple of girls were out, too, and they started cheering for the two muscular boys, encouraging them to go back in the water. Chris and Tony both went, with Tony vowing to Chris that payback was coming for getting him into this. Chris just laughed and headed for the tallest wave he could find.

 **XX**

When the sun set around 5, Chris and Tony amused themselves by going into a Burger King still wearing just their swimming trunks in the middle of November. Even at a beach town, it was a little unusual. The manager was surprised enough that he didn't even remember to enforce the "no shoes, no shirt, no service" sign still on the door.

After eating a couple burgers and boxes of fries each for dinner, Chris and Tony went back to the sleek black Camaro convertible. Its twin tailpipes emitted a throaty roar as Chris started it up, and he worked the stick shift smoothly as he maneuvered through town. Like everything else being put on the road right now, the Camaro's styling had been done by somebody who'd only had a ruler to work with, but in this case, it looked good. As they drove out of Surf City and into the North Carolina countryside, Chris opened the Camaro up, shifting into higher and higher gears.

Tony was having to yell to even be heard for a few minutes, but it was kind of fun. He wanted to drive, though, and kept telling the redhead that. Eventually, Chris slowed down and pulled off the two-lane highway and onto a dirt road surrounded by tall, overgrown grass. It led up to a farm that didn't look like it had been doing much farming lately. Chris drove around behind the red barn, which actually looked gray with so much paint having worn off, shifted into neutral, and turned the engine off.

"Chris," Tony said, "this is oddly romantic…"

"Oh, shut up," Chris said. "I made a call while you weren't paying attention, and plans were made."

"So?"

"So, two girls are gonna be coming out here to meet us in a few minutes."

"So what're you gonna do while I'm having my threesome?"

"Yeah, you wish," Chris said. "The girls are gonna each pick one of us."

Tony laughed. "So, they're really up for just doing this?"

"Oh, yeah, man. They're fun girls. They're not exactly sluts or whores, but they go for a roll in the hay when they want to. Especially with guys like us."

"I mean, they don't _have_ anything, right?"

"Nah, they're fine."

 **XX**

Chris and Tony were sitting on the hood of the Camaro when a red Firebird drove around the back of the barn. Chris waved. Two pretty girls got out; the driver was a redhead, and the passenger was a brunette. They both looked at Chris, then at Tony.

"Hey, so this is that friend of yours?" the redhead asked.

"Yeah," Chris said, cupping his hands and lighting a cigarette. "Kat, this is Tony, Tony, this is Kat. Katherine. Either one."

"Not gonna introduce me, Chris?" the brunette asked.

"Of course I was, Brittany."

The girls glanced at each other. "So, who's gonna man up and go first?" Kat asked, crossing her arms and looking at the two boys.

"Go first?" Tony asked.

"Oh, man," Chris sighed. He slid off the hood of the Camaro and started to strip. "Girls, you've both seen me naked before."

"Hey, come on, Tony, don't be shy!" Kat called.

"Yeah," Brittany added. "Show us what you've got!"

Tony hesitated, but Chris, who was down to his underwear, laughed at him. "Oh, Tony, don't tell me this is your first. Are you nervous, my man?"

"No," Tony shot back, glaring at Chris. It was maybe 65 degrees out, but Tony didn't see a way out of this one. He quickly undressed, and made a point of not looking at Chris as the two boys stood naked in the glow of the Impala's headlights.

"Both of 'em have six-packs," Brittany remarked. "Nice."

"I was looking at something else, Brittany."

"I'd say they're about even."

"Oh, I'm bigger," Tony called boastfully. He moved his hips around, struck a pose with his hands behind his head. "Come on, girls. Don't be shy."

The girls laughed. Brittany waved to Chris. "Chris, come on, sweetie. Let's get you warmed up in the back seat."

Chris whooped, did a little dance, and hurried towards her. Kat and Brittany both slapped him on the ass as he took the latter's hand and headed back towards the Camaro. Tony avoided looking at Chris, who set a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to whisper something.

"Tony."

"Yeah?"

"Always remember. When in doubt… fuck."

Tony smiled, in spite of himself. "I like that rule."

Chris smiled back. "Yeah. I knew you would. Have a good time, man."

With that, the naked redhead climbed into the backseat of his car, and Brittany joined him and closed the long driver's side door. Tony could see Chris leaning back, putting his hands behind his head.

Someone slapped Tony's ass. "Hey, kid," Katherine said, "you gonna stare at them all day?"

"Don't call me kid," Tony replied.

"What should I call you, Six-Pack?"

"I work out a lot," Tony replied smugly. "I could be a model."

They started to walk to the Impala, and Tony became aware that he was getting a little chilly. He didn't like it much, but pride made him walk like it was a warm summer day. Still, Tony was plenty glad to open the door, let Kat or Katherine or whoever she was in, and then slide over onto the red velour bench seat, then pull the door closed and cut off the cold.

The redheaded girl was already pulling off her sweater, then her long-sleeved t-shirt. She looked at Tony appreciatively. "You're not bad to look at, you know."

Tony flexed the strong, well-developed muscles in his arms and shoulders. "You don't have to just look."

Her eyes flicked down. "Excited, are we?"

Things were moving right along. That was fine with Tony. He'd had one-night stands before. Those were some of the most fun he'd ever had, because you had all the enjoyment but no worries about commitment. So Tony smiled confidently as she moved closer to him, putting an arm around her shoulders. "When in doubt, fuck."

Katherine laughed. "You know," she said, "I think you'll last longer than Chris usually does."

She lowered her head, and Tony quickly forgot about all his problems, starting with his stupid, useless Dad. Christ, that felt good. Who needed him, anyway?

 **XX**

Over the next hour, Tony got the best workout he'd had in months. Katherine was pretty demanding, always insisting that Tony do this, or that, or the other thing. Tony would've complained, except he was enjoying himself too much to even think of it. He hadn't gotten action like this since his first. Katherine was insatiable. Tony had to do a lot to try to just keep her happy, but once they'd fogged up the windows completely, she looked pretty damn happy. Both of them did. Tony knew, because when he glanced at the interior rearview mirror, he saw two sweaty, naked teenagers with identical grins plastered on their faces.

Not a bad way to spend an evening.

"So, tell me," Katherine said, while they relaxed for a while, cooling off, with Tony keeping an arm around her shoulders. "You're from that base, too, aren't you?"

"What?" Tony had no idea what she meant.

"Your buddy. He's a lance corporal at Camp Lajeune. He said you guys are in the same unit and everything. So you're a Marine too, right?"

"Uh-"

"He showed us his ID, even. Where's your ID, Six-Pack?"

Tony laughed nervously, trying to cover for whatever lie Chris had constructed about the both of them. "Uh, I left it back in the car. His car. And who cares, anyway? Once you've seen one ID, you've seen 'em all."

Kat eyed him for a moment, then snickered. "Ain't that the truth. All those sexy boys with their neat haircuts, their abs and shoulders, and their cards are just boring as hell."

"It's not all exciting."

"You Marine boys are exciting where it matters." She laughed. "I love fucking Marine boys."

"Oh, not the girls?"

"I just play for one team, thanks."

"Works for me," Tony said with a grin. "So, how was I?"

"Amazing."

"Better than Chris?"

"He's pretty wild. I can't believe some of what he's into. But he fucks like a champ."

"I'm better, though, right? Or am I bigger than he is?"

"Why don't _you_ two get together and compare sizes sometime?"

"Oh, jeez!" Tony exclaimed, recoiling at the thought. "Come on!"

"You wanna do some more of that?" Kat asked invitingly.

"Oh, wow. That's, uh, that's nice."

"Well?"

"Sure."

 **XX**

It was late in the evening when they finally got headed back. After swapping stories and graphic details with Chris for a while, Tony started wondering about what Kat had told him. Something must have showed on his face, because finally Chris asked, "Cat got your tongue, Tony?"

"Why did Kat think we were in the Marines?"

"Oh, that," Chris sighed. "Well, sometimes, I don't tell all the girls I fuck exactly who I am. I'd rather keep from having my brother or my dad look bad."

"She said you showed her your ID. You faked a Marine ID?"

"I might have one around. But there isn't one for you, so don't get your hopes up."

"But why do you have one?"

"It's a nice prop for the story."

Tony considered that. "Well, how'd you get it made? How good a fake is it? Hey, can I see it?"

"Did you ask Kat this many questions?" Chris asked sharply. "Did you guys fuck the way you said, or did you just interrogate her for a fucking hour?"

The sudden anger in Chris' voice surprised Tony, so he decided it was time to back off. "Hey, easy, man. Peace. I just- I think it's pretty cool you have a fake ID and everything."

"Yeah, man, I get you," Chris said, relaxing again. "Hey, hey, hey- watch this."

Before Tony could ask what he meant, Chris stepped on the gas pedal, shifted up a gear, and the Camaro started to fly. The needle shot toward 85MPH, the highest speed listed, and then hung steadily there, but the growing roar of the engine made Tony think the car was probably going faster than the speedometer was able to show.

Tony started to feel nervous. "Hey, are you sure-"

"Yeah, there's hardly ever any cops on this road, man." Chris looked at Tony, then lifted both hands off the wheel. "Ta-da!"

"Dude!" Tony reached over to grab the wheel, but Chris slapped his hand away.

"Keep it cool, killa!"

"Get your fuckin' hands on the wheel!"

"Oh, whatever," Chris sighed, dropping both hands back onto the steering wheel. "You're just like my brother, never letting me have any fun."

"Does a lot of that 'fun' involve you trying to kill yourself?"

Chris scoffed. "Please. Did you see the alignment on this thing? She runs straight as an arrow. I could drive my car with my _feet_ if I wanted to."

"That doesn't make it a _good fucking idea_!"

Chris uttered a high-pitched, crazy laugh. "Tony, man, go after something with enough courage and skill and nothing in this life is impossible! My brother said that!"

The Camaro's engine was screaming. Tony had to yell to be heard. "Does that include us getting back _alive_?"

"Sure it does, man!" Chris suddenly downshifted, and the Camaro's engine bellowed in protest. Chris jerked the wheel hard to the left, and tires screamed as the Camaro slid to the right. The tail end gradually swung around, and when Chris stomped on the brake and brought them to a halt, they were turned completely around, sitting on the other side of the road.

"Oh, Jesus," Tony breathed. "Oh, God."

"Hey, that's just what Brittany kept saying."

"You are fucking _insane_ , dude."

Chris laughed as he got the Camaro moving again, did a U-turn, and resumed the trip back to the base. "Admit it. This is fun."

"I'd like to live to age eighteen, if that's okay."

"Tony, every day, you need to get up and live like there's no tomorrow. Because one day you'll find it's true."

"Well, if it's because of you, I'm gonna kick your ass with every second I got left."

"It's fun being friends with you, Tony."

"Sure, man. Sure."

 **XX**

The next morning, Chris was out when Tony got up. Sergeant Major Marshall had already gone to do Marine stuff for the day, and Josh was no doubt busy doing whatever a tank officer did. Probably Marine stuff as well. There was a note pinned to Chris' door, saying "Be back with morning chow by the time your lazy ass gets up. Do some PT or hit the head, whatever."

Tony laughed as he read the note; it was surprisingly easy to hear the redhead saying those words. Deciding he wanted another look at the babes in bikinis that Chris had on some of the featured posters in his room, Tony opened the door and headed in. He looked around, noting with some amusement that Chris' bed was unmade.

The closet doors to the left, just past the dresser, were firmly shut, though. And they had been when Tony had been in here before, come to think of it. Curious as to how neat or messy the closet was, having seen most of the rest of the house, Tony walked over there, took hold of the two brass handles, and yanked the doors open.

The closet was a model to military precision. Various military uniforms hung in the closet, marked with the seal of the Young Marines. There were also a couple of Cub Scout and Boy Scout uniforms, a few suits and neckties from brand names that Tony knew were a little bit out of reach for the son of any Marine noncom, a laundry hamper neatly tucked in one corner, and some cardboard boxes, all of their tops neatly in place, beneath the clothes.

Prominently displayed- facing front and center, not to one side or the other- on a pivoting wooden hanger was Chris' full dress uniform from RMA; the dress hat was displayed above it on the top shelf. Right next to a couple of basketballs, one of which was marked in RMA colors and with the RMA seal.

The uniform was flawlessly-appointed, not one smudge or smear on anything. It had been in the closet for over a day (presumably) but there was not even a speck of dust on it. Why was it faced front and center like that?

Tony shot a guilty glance at the door. He wasn't supposed to be doing this, but… maybe he'd find out something interesting! Like that Chris was actually a virgin and/or had a tiny dick. Or maybe he had a secret infatuation with Karl Marx or something. That made the snooping feel a little less wrong, actually- thinking of funny things it might enable Tony to learn.

The first couple of boxes on the lower shelf were just filled with child's drawings of various patriotic and military scenes, lots of pictures of Chris and his brother growing up with their adopted dad, various books, models, toys and mementos. One held stuffed animals. Tony was just about to get bored when he found one that had a bunch of VHS tapes, all labeled things like "X61786". There was a manila envelope tucked in between them.

Something was off about this. Why the collection of obscurely-labeled tapes? What was in that envelope? Why had those closet doors been so firmly shut in the first place?

Tony suddenly realized he didn't want to be found here. Not in this room, but especially not here, going through a box he was most definitely _not_ meant to find. Tony carefully replaced the top of the box, then set the one he'd moved back on top of it. Tony checked everything else, making sure it was all back in place. It looked good. Time to close the do-

"What are you doing in my room?"

Tony jumped and stood up, his face growing hot as he realized he'd been caught. And with the closet doors still open, no less. Chris was standing in the doorway, a cold, wary expression on his face.

"Uh, I was-just looking around," Tony blurted. "I wanted to see those chicks in the bikinis some more."

"They're on the wall," Chris said, taking a series of slow steps toward Tony. "Not in the closet. What were you doing in there?"

"Just a surprise inspection," Tony said, trying to make it a joke. "You got your shit squared away, man."

"I don't need you inspecting my closet," Chris said. "I don't need you in here at all."

Chris' eyes flicked away from Tony for one second, eyeballing the closet as he approached it. Tony prayed he had done things right, that he hadn't left evidence of the items he'd moved around. Chris didn't seem to spot anything out of place, but that cold, suspicious look remained.

"I was just looking around, honest."

"Looking for what?" Chris asked, circling around Tony. He reached out and shut each of the closet doors. "What were you looking for?"

"Nothing, really. Just wanted to look around."

Chris stared at him. "Get out."

"Sure," Tony said, hurrying to the door. Chris followed him, pulling his room door shut behind him.

Before Tony could say anything else, the redhead stepped close to him, so close their faces were just inches apart. There was so much hate in that face, in those eyes, that Tony took an involuntary step back. He'd never seen anyone so angry in all his life.

"Don't you ever let me find you in there again," Chris said, still in that quiet, measured voice. "My room is mine, not yours. Unless you're with me, you stay the fuck out. Don't ever fucking snoop in my room again. You got no fucking right. That room is none of your fucking business. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah," Tony said, nodding.

"Do you fucking understand me?"

Tony cleared his throat and said, "Yeah, you got it man. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"It better not. If it happens again-"

"It won't. Seriously." Tony swallowed nervously, wiped his clammy hands on his shorts. "I'm sorry. I mean it. I didn't know this was such a serious thing for you. It won't happen again."

Chris' whole manner changed then. He smiled, and slapped Tony on the back. "Well, all right, then! I got some Burger King for us, some of those Cini-Mini things. They're fucking kickass, man."

"Sounds good," Tony said, smiling back. He was both glad there was hot food and glad that he didn't have to see that cold look in Chris' eyes anymore. That had been unnerving, and Tony was glad to see Chris relaxed and friendly again.

"You ready for some basketball? I told a bunch of guys from 2nd Tanks we'd hit up the gym and meet 'em for a game of basketball today."

"Sure. But do those guys know what they're getting into? They really wanna do this?" Tony rolled up one of his sleeves, flexing the strong bicep muscle.

Chris laughed. "You're not the only alpha jock who thinks he's the biggest dick aboard," he said. "You'll see."

 **XX**

Chris and Tony spent the day at the gym, working out and swapping fitness expertise with some of the junior enlisted Marines and some other boys who were sons of personnel on the base. Tony saw again what he'd seen the morning he'd gone on that run with 2nd Tanks: Chris was so accepted, the Marines saw him as being no different from one of them. When the day did come that Chris formally became a Marine, Tony realized, it would only be a small change in who he was and the way he lived his life.

As for the basketball game, Tony got the one game he was promised and then some. Chris quickly organized a tournament with a bunch of boys their age, and the best team from that tournament went head-to-head with a team of junior enlisted Marines. Then Josh Marshall showed up with a team of officers from his battalion, and they just creamed everybody. Tony and Chris were the vanguard of the doomed team, though, putting up fierce resistance on defense and even managing a basket or two when they had possession. Tony loved basketball, had loved it for years, and he could see it in both Marshalls' eyes that they loved it, too.

It was the thrill of adrenaline, of a good fight, of physical exertion, becoming strong and staying strong. It was the center of being a jock, being addicted to the high of working out, playing sports, challenging your body and mind any way you could. It was magnificent seeing Chris was the same way, that he loved basketball for the same kind of reasons. The hours passed quickly and easily, and Tony couldn't believe it when he took a break and saw the sun had gone down.

 **XX**

Still feeling guilty about angering his friend so much and shaken by the sheer hatred he'd seen in Chris' face when he was telling Tony to stay out of his room, Tony tried apologizing again a few times during the day, but Chris adamantly refused to discuss it.

Eventually, Tony decided to let it go. He would never have gone in there if he'd known, but he'd apologized already, and Chris had at least seemed to accept it. That would have to be enough for now.

Late that night, Tony went to Chris' room to try and apologize one more time, but he wasn't there. After looking around the house briefly, Tony found him out on the back lawn, looking up at the stars.

 _Maybe I should leave him alone_ , Tony thought. _I already pissed him off once today_.

But maybe this was just the right time. At the very least, if Chris wanted to be alone, he'd say so.

Steeling himself against the chill of the Carolina night air, Tony went outside and shut the back door behind him.

"Hey, DiNoodle."

"Hey, Marshmallow."

Chris laughed. "Come on over here. Look up there."

Tony was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, and all the dew collecting on that grass would just make him chillier. But he came down the steps and lay down next to Chris anyway. The redhead didn't say anything at first, and Tony decided not to press him.

"Do you remember your mother?" Chris asked.

"A little." Tony hesitated. "Why?"

"I've never had one. I just was wondering what that's like. Having a mom."

"She loved movies," Tony said. "And she liked this French king's wallpaper for some reason." He paused, then added, "Things were better when she was around."

"She sounds like she was a nice person."

"Way better than Dad."

"What'd you say happened to her?"

"She died when I was eight. That's all I know."

Chris was silent for a while. "My brother won't tell me anything about our parents."

"Did he run away from home or something?"

"Yeah. When he was ten. Says it was for our own good. He took me in a backpack, and he just ran. He still has the backpack around somewhere." Chris fell silent for a few moments. "Don't ask him unless he brings it up himself. He doesn't like to talk about it."

"He really won't say what happened?"

"All he'll tell me is it was so bad I'm better off not knowing."

"What do you think?"

Chris sighed. "I don't know. He's my brother. He kept me alive for four years until Dad found us and adopted us. He's everything I want to be. I don't need to know what happened to know he's right. Even if our parents are alive, out there… I could die right now and they'd never know. They're gone. It doesn't matter."

"Oh, you can't die tonight, man."

"Why's that?"

"Cause I need you to take on those jerkoffs at that stupid school with me."

"Which ones?" Chris retorted, and they both laughed. It felt good to laugh. It made Tony feel easier about Honor Corps, and getting dumped on someone else by his father again, and just life in general. It felt good having Chris beside him, just being his friend.

"This isn't so bad," Tony said finally.

"Beats getting left at school because your dad doesn't give a shit, right?"

"Yeah."

"Tony, have you ever been to the statue at the north end of campus? Have you seen what's written on it?"

"What?"

"The statue, the one of a cadet saluting in full dress uniform. It's right beside the chapel."

"I didn't look at it."

" _Huc venite iuvenes ut exeatis viri_."

"Huh?"

"That's what it says at the base of the statue."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"'Come here as boys, so you may leave here as men.'"

Tony looked at Chris, impressed in spite of himself. "You sound like you memorized it."

"I have. I go there a lot, whenever I need to think."

"Now I know your secret."

"One of these days you're gonna have to grow up and become a man, Tony. You'll legally be one soon. Why not do it at Remington? Place isn't so bad. The code means something. That school means something."

"What was it like for your brother?" Tony asked curiously.

Chris grinned. "He loved it. He went from being homeless to attending one of the best prep schools in America. You- I can't even imagine what that was like for him. The difference. What I do know is he played varsity basketball, got a perfect GPA, became cadet colonel. Graduated first in his class. A goddamn legend. The alumni organization named him one of the greatest Remington cadets ever."

"You really love him, don't you?"

"He saved my life, Tony. I owe him everything. Everything I ever do or become will be because he gave me the chance to try."

"I kinda wish I had someone like that," Tony admitted.

Chris gave him a playful shove. "You'll have to make do with me."

"Aw, man."

 **XX**

Thursday, November 27 was another great day at the gym. Hitting the weight room, hitting the track, hitting the basketball courts- Tony was in his element, and Chris was there the whole time, bringing that contagious energy of his, making everything more interesting, more fun. Eventually, the two boys wandered over to a bus station and took one of the base shuttles to the on-base movie theater, where they watched Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and Chris laughed uproariously when, at one point, Tony leaned over and said he thought Mark Golan was exactly like Cameron Frye.

Once the movie was over, it was time to go home. Chris used a payphone to call his house, and Josh showed up a few minutes later. As Tony walked in the front door, a whole collection of aromas hit him at once, and it was impossible to decide which one he liked the best. He followed Chris and Josh into the dining room, where Sergeant Major Marshall was just setting down a plate of beets.

"Boys," he said in that deep, gravelly voice, his craggy face lit up with a smile. "Glad you could join me."

"Dad," Chris protested, "two of us _live_ here!"

Josh smacked Chris on the back of the head. "Stand up straight when the Sergeant Major speaks to you!"

Chris turned and smacked Tony on the back of the head. "When you speak to an officer, you say, 'sir'!"

"Okay, that'll do," Josh said, and with seemingly no effort he grabbed both teens by the collar and hauled them into the kitchen. "Wash your hands."

"What?" Tony asked. "Why?"

"Yeah, why?" Chris demanded.

Josh smacked both of them on the back of the head.

"Ow!"

"Hey!"

"Get on with it, guys. Chow's not getting any warmer."

After some grumbling, the two boys washed their hands and then joined the elder two Marshalls at the table.

"Hey!" Tony exclaimed suddenly as he was just sitting down. "Josh didn't wash _his_ hands!"

"Alright, you got me," Josh said, laughing. "I'll go, I'll go."

"Nice catch, Tony," Chris commented.

"Yeah, I try."

After a minute, Josh came back, sarcastically waggling his fingers toward Tony to show them off. Then he sat down, closed his eyes, and said, "Almighty God, we thank you for another year given to us by Your grace. My father and I serve our country and our Corps as instruments of Your will. Help guide my brother as he leads his fellow cadets in his final year at Remington, and help all three of us guide and protect the young man with us today as our guest. May there always be peace, and may there always be Marines, ready to do Your work if those that would do evil should threaten it. Amen."

"Amen," Sergeant Major Marshall and Chris echoed. Tony said it as well. It was a pretty impressive prayer.

"So," Sergeant Major Marshall said, "Tony. The boys and I have a tradition. After the prayer, we each say something we're thankful for. You can say anything you want, but don't be irreverent. Josh and Chris tell me you've had trouble there, but there won't be any while you're a guest of the Corps. Understood?"

"Yes, sir- uh, Sergeant Major."

"Don't worry about that formality. Okay, I'll start. I'm thankful for my years in the Marine Corps, and that I have survived three wars to raise my two fine sons."

The elder Marshall then nodded to Josh, who said, "I'm thankful for everything that I have."

Tony was up next, and he said, "I'm thankful, that, uh… I got to spend my Thanksgiving break with such a nice bunch of people. I'm thankful I made a new friend."

"And so am I," Chris added. He picked up a plate and looked at Tony. "Beets?"

"So, Tony," Josh said casually, "any thoughts about Remington? Thinking you might give it a shot there after all? Or is getting thrown out still the plan?"

Tony speared a few beets and moved them onto his plate. He considered the question for a few moments. "Well, I was thinking about it, yeah. I guess I could."

" _Verum_ , _Animus_ , _Officium_ ," Chris said, holding up his gold class ring.

Josh held up a different one. "The Citadel let me have that engraved on the inside of my ring," he said. "Even when I was a knob I knew that's what I wanted engraved beside my name on my ring."

"Truth, Valor, Duty, huh?" Tony replied. "I'm not really big on, you know, fancy mottoes."

"You don't need to be to live by it," Josh replied, then spoke as if reciting something. "Truth: honesty and directness, making the right choice always. Valor: great courage in the face of adversity, be it moral or physical. Duty: a moral or legal obligation, or both. A responsibility."

Josh paused. "You can believe in that, Tony, even if you don't like everyone at Remington. Even if not everything's right at that place, living by that code will help _you_ to make it better. You understand?"

Tony nodded slowly. "Yeah… I… I think I do." He smiled. "I kinda like that."

"I'm glad you do, Tony. Now, please hand the chow over. My plate is experiencing a dire shortage of beets."

 **XX**

Several hours later, Chris was sitting on the couch, waiting for the phone to ring. Dad was upstairs, asleep. Josh was at his own house. And Tony was asleep, safe and sound. Out of the way for when the call came in.

 _Brriiiing! Briiiing!_

Chris snatched the phone up. He didn't want Dad or Tony hearing the ringing and waking up, getting curious. Either way they'd wind up asking questions he didn't want to answer.

"Yes," Chris said.

"So what the fuck's he doing at your _house_?" Golan demanded. He sounded pissed off, which was just wonderful. "You fucking invited him _home_ for _Thanksgiving_? What the hell's the _matter_ with you?!"

"Cool it, Golan; I'm just going with the plan."

"Oh, so he's just your _pretend_ friend, huh?"

"You bet."

"Does he trust you?"

"More every second."

"And he doesn't think you're with us?"

"He has no idea. He's not as observant as he thinks he is."

"He's not as _smart_ as he thinks he is."

"That, too."

Golan paused. "Alright, I'll tell you what. I want intel. A lot of it. Consider it an assignment."

"You haven't drawn the marble yet, Colonel."

"It's an order anyway, Sergeant Major."

"So what do you want to know?"

"What he loves, what he hates besides our school, what he fears. _Everything_ about him that matters. I wanna know everything I can use to hurt him if I need to. Knowledge is power, and I wanna know him better than he knows himself. It's how you control assholes like him, keep them in line."

"You can get pretty serious sometimes, Golan."

"I _am_ serious. I'm doing my job. Alex is waiting. What do I tell him?"

"Tell him DiNozzo trusts me. He thinks I'm really his friend. He's got no idea what's actually going on. Tell him that when we get back from break I'll know everything about him. I'll know which hand he jerks off with and how he learned to piss."

Golan laughed. "That's great, Marshall. Just keep up the good work, then. And don't worry. We're not gonna just tell him everything you tell us. He'll never know it was you." A pause. "You should think about going into Psy-Ops when you join the Marines. You'd be good at it."

"I've considered it."

"I can't wait to find out all the shit this guy doesn't tell people," Golan said gleefully. "Every dirty little secret. Everything he's afraid of."

"I'll get you everything. If not now, then after we get back. Just leave it to me. I'm on it."

"That's great, Marshall. Make sure you keep up the game with Tanner, too. The rest of us will play our part when you need us."

"I'll let you know."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Chris."

"Likewise, Mark."

"I'll see you at school."

The line went dead, and Chris set the phone back in its cradle. He looked up at the image of the flag being raised on Iwo Jima, and wondered what it had been like for his then-underage adoptive father, too young to legally be a Marine but old enough to fake his way in and fight in the bloodiest battle of World War II in the Pacific. He wondered what it had been like for his brother to live ten increasingly-miserable years in some home somewhere, then four on the streets with a little brother to feed, only to get adopted around his fourteenth birthday, walk into Remington Military Academy, and become a legend.

Chris also thought about his 'friend' upstairs, and his fraternal brothers, all of them soon to return to school. He thought about the mission he was on, the oath he had sworn to keep, and what that meant he had to do in regard to Tony DiNozzo, and wondered if he wasn't somehow doing the wrong thing.

* * *

 **A/N: 11-24-2018.**

 **So, fun story! I was going to copy this chapter over to another document after highlighting the entire thing, and hit "Cut" instead. I spent a couple seconds staring at the blank page, considered panicking, then hit Google to see if there was a way to undo my mistake. CTRL+Z saved Chapter 7. I don't know what I would have done if I'd actually lost it. Better that I don't have to worry about that.**

 **And with that, the 7** **th** **chapter of "The Cadet" is completed, the first one since February of 2018. I can't promise when the next update will be, but I'm hoping it won't be another five months! I haven't been lacking for interest or inspiration for the story- just short on free time.**

 **Chris Marshall has a line in this chapter that references the 1992 film "Scent of a Woman." At another point, Chuck Pfarrer's book "Warrior Soul" is referenced.**

 **This chapter took me a long while to complete, like I said. I wrote maybe 8 pages' worth and just stopped. Main thing was, apart from probably some writer's block, was that I just couldn't seem to find the time to really sit down and work on it, and what little time I could come up with was never enough to get any thoughts going. I finally managed it today.**

 **All feedback is welcome, and be just as detailed as you like. If you notice proofreading issues, or have more significant negative commentary, I'd suggest sending me a PM instead. But ultimately that's up to you.**

 **Josh Marshall has appeared in "Gibbs' Test" by Jenny wrens, Chapter 35, with my permission. In fact, I actually suggested it as part of a possible path to resolving one of the plot lines of that story, and wrote a scene that is used in the chapter. Josh, like his brother, is more than he seems and possesses a great deal of charm, intelligence, and courage. Both of them will have a prominent role in this story.**

 **Chapter 8 will focus on everyone getting back at school, and this plan to take on Honor Corps that Coach Tanner and Tony DiNozzo think they have underway. Tony is coming around to thinking that he'll make his stand and try graduating from Remington, but it's November 1986, and May 1987 is a long way off. A lot can happen between those points in time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 **XX**

* * *

 _June 24, 1982_

 _Eielson Air Force Base, Fairbanks, Alaska_

* * *

Mark Golan was so excited. Ben Eielson Junior High had given him the afternoon off so he could see Colonel Thomas "Finn" Sawyer's "fini flight", his last flight before retiring from the United States Air Force, from the backyard of the Golan family's house at here at Eielson. Mark had complained bitterly that he wasn't allowed to attend the ceremony at the airfield, but Dad had insisted on it, promising that he and the good Colonel would be coming by to visit as soon as the flight was over.

After that, Mark knew, there would be a big reception for Colonel Sawyer, a dance sponsored by Ben Eielson Junior & Senior High School in his honor and attended by everyone who was anyone at Eielson AFB. Mark had gotten himself into quite a pickle… he'd gotten tricked into asking two girls to the dance. It was complicated. Mark was very popular at school, and it seemed that was the source of the trouble- some of the guys he was friends with were in on it. Mark knew they were.

But that was for later, and Mark knew Dad could help him resolve the problem. He'd explained some details of it to Dad before he left this morning, and Dad had promised "We'll talk about it," with a wry smile on his face. Great. So Dad thought Mark's problem was funny, too.

Someone poked Mark in the back with what felt like one of Mom's rolling pins. Mark turned around, glaring at Ben Borneman, son of the commander of the 82nd Maintenance Wing. The black-haired youth grinned impishly and poked Mark again, this time in the chest.

"Mom's not gonna like it if she finds you using her kitchen stuff for that," Mark said reproachfully.

"She told me to come in and get you," Ben countered. "I'm doing what I was told."

"Oh, good job, small wonder why my Dad flies the bombers and your dad just fixes 'em."

"Try going one day without my dad's shops keeping everything running. Just try it."

"So proud to be a glorified grease monkey."

"That's 'grease monkey's brat' to you," Ben countered.

"This is why nobody likes you."

"This is why nobody likes you."

"Boys!" Laura Golan said, opening the glass sliding door on the back porch. "What's taking so long? King 6 is taking off any minute."

"Aw, Mom," Mark said. "Ben just told me he wants to ask a boy to the dance. He's got real problems, Mom. I'm trying to get him to get his head right."

Mom laughed. "Mark, I think I'm beginning to see how you got yourself into that fix you're in at school."

"Hey! Dad told you about that?"

"In passing. You're quite a charmer, Mark, but you better be a gentleman tonight. I expect both of those girls to each have a wonderful time, or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else this grease monkey is gonna beat you up," Ben said gleefully, poking Mark some more.

The roar of jet engines interrupted Mark's reply. The two boys suddenly dashed outside, eager to see the boss of the 157th Bomb Wing in the air for the last time. Mark knew Major Richard Harland from the 10th Bomb Squadron was the command pilot for this flight. He also knew Harland had a terrible record for recklessness and suicidally stupid bravado. Dad hated him and if Harland had just been in the 97th Bomb Squadron- and thus under Lieutenant Colonel Mark Golan Sr.'s command- he would have been kicked out of the Air Force by now.

As it was, Dad had been vowing to Mom that he was going to "get that son of a bitch" and "nail that stupid asshole to the wall," so Mark knew it was just a matter of time. He whooped as he saw the B-52 Stratofortress climbing above the trees that, though they helped reduce the noise of constant takeoffs and landings, also frustratingly obscured the view of the runway.

"That's it! That's King Six!"

"Yeah, I recognize the new tires," Ben said.

"How would you know; they already retracted the gear." Mark checked his watch. "And it's 13:58, plenty of time for some lemonade while we watch my father keep that dumb fu- fool in line."

"Good choice of words, Mark," Mom said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Would you boys like some of that lemonade? They're just going to head out over the base and come back."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ben and Mark both gratefully accepted the glasses that Mom poured for them on the table. They took a cushioned deck chair each and talked about the Air Force. As always, the topic revolved around their fathers' careers.

"So, you really think your Dad is earmarked for General?" Ben asked.

"That's what Colonel Sawyer told me. It's gonna be a few years yet. He's gotta make O-6 first, obviously."

"Oh, hot-shot Mark Golan Senior isn't just gonna skip on up to four stars?"

"It's more likely to happen than your dad ever getting _one_ star."

"My Dad still outranks yours."

Mark stuck out his tongue.

The boys drank their lemonade and bickered amicably about who was better, more athletic, more attractive, whose father was going to make rank first, and so on. They had become best friends almost immediately after Mark's father had been transferred to Eiselson AFB two years ago. It had been a great friendship from the start, with lots of fierce competition and genuine affection between them. Used to a nomadic life of roaming from one base to the next according to the whims of the Air Force, the two boys had been delighted to have one year, then two to be friends. They'd expected it might have to end with one of them moving any minute. This was the longest either of them had ever stayed in one place.

Before long, though, Mark heard the approach of the jet engines, and he clinked his glass with Ben. "To Colonel Huck Finn Sawyer," Mark yelled. "The second-best pilot in the Air Force!"

"Make sure to wave!" Mom shouted.

The two boys did so, but Mark suddenly felt his smile fading. Something was wrong.

King 6 flew overhead, evidently taking the long way around the control tower before landing. As it banked for the turn, however, the bomber's port wing sank lower and lower. The bomber was already less than 300 feet above the ground, and Mark was suddenly on his feet, shouting "Pull up! Pull up! You're too low to be turning like that! PULL UP!"

Sun glinted off the B-52's gray fuselage as King Six went into an irreversible stall, as the steady roar of the multiple engines started to die.

"PULL UP!" Mark screamed.

King 6 continued forward as it attempted to bank around the tower, losing altitude. Mark was yelling and screaming, but none of it did any good. The B-52 disappeared below the trees, and the great roaring explosion, the sound of the Devil firing a shotgun in Hell- came a second later.

 _KA-WHAMMM!_

"DAD!" Mark howled.

He wasn't aware of anything after that. Not really. Confronted with the horror of what he'd just seen, Mark's mind simply detached itself. And so he barely heard Mom and Ben crying out, barely heard their surprised shouts as Mark vaulted over the railing of the back porch and began sprinting for the trees. Sirens began going off, and distantly, Mark could see men running, MP and fire vehicles speeding out toward the rising plume of black smoke.

Ben tackled Mark before he made it out of the backyard. As fit and athletic as his best friend, Ben wrestled Mark down and pinned him to the grass. "You can't go out there, man," he said, his voice shaking badly.

"LET ME GO!"

"I can't."

"I SAID LET ME GO!"

"It isn't gonna bring him back, man."

"LET ME GO _NOW_!"

But Ben didn't. He stayed there, tears streaming down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs as sirens screamed and Eielson Air Force Base went into lockdown. The worst happened. An aircraft was down, and from the size and force of that explosion that had rocked even the oldest trees lining the airfield, no one was coming out of that. Both boys knew it. The difference was Ben admitted he knew. Mark had no intention of acknowledging that stupid fake-macho, wannabe class-clown Rich Harland had just killed Dad.

So Mark shouted and twisted and kicked and yelled. Mom was there too, saying things, but Mark didn't care. He fought and he cried, and eventually he just cried. Finally, many hours later, the solemn-faced detail of men in dress uniform came and told Mark and his Mom what they already knew.

 **XX**

Mark awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. He was grateful that he hadn't woken Allison up, at least. Mark had been "messing around" with one girl or another in Pocahontas or Greenbrier County for years now. A few of them even knew about the others, and when Mark was back and wanted to go for a roll in the hay, they were up for it. It was a great deal of fun, sure, and Mark loved it, but over time he'd also begun to suspect he was working out and sleeping around this much because he didn't want to think about something.

That goddamn nightmare. It came along every so often. Back after the crash first happened, it would come around every three or four days, or even every night. But less often, Mark found, if he was exhausted. So he'd started working out like never before, started to chase after girls like never before, and after arriving at Remington… he'd lived military life like never before.

It was better than thinking about it, although Mark wound up thinking about it all the time. Other boys tended to tease Mark for being so moody, so serious, so relentless and quick to anger. Mark didn't much care. Even if some of his fraternal brothers didn't quite get it, that was okay. They didn't need to understand, really, not the way Mark did, not the way that Richard Harland II called "Anthony DiNozzo" did.

Mark shifted and swung his feet out over the floor. His groin ached. Mark had tried so much to just wear himself out. Allison thought he'd just been really "in the mood" tonight, or whatever. It didn't matter. Mark sat there for a while, looking out the window.

 _I don't care what it takes. I will get the stars you already earned, Dad. I will make it right. And all the Richard Harlands in the world will not be enough to stop me._

 **XX**

Tony began Friday, November 28th a little cautiously. Still eager to avoid angering Chris again, Tony was careful to avoid going even near the door to his room unless he and Chris were hanging out. The red-haired teen didn't refer to the 'incident' and Tony didn't bring it up. Chris, Tony decided, was an odd guy sometimes. There were things about him Tony just couldn't place. But he was a highly skilled basketball player, an awesome workout partner, and a great party companion. He had an intoxicating degree of belief in his own invincibility and was wildly enthusiastic about life. No one Tony had ever met was quite so much fun to be around.

The two boys went on an early morning run with Captain and Sergeant Major Marshall, and Tony took great pride in the fact that, in addition to having one hell of a bod, enough that he could pass for a Marine at a glance (or three), he could run like a Marine, too. The Sergeant Major set the pace, and it was strenuous and then some. The man might have been an aging veteran of three wars, but the years only seemed to have toughened him.

After the run, the Sergeant Major took Tony aside.

"My youngest has really taken a liking to you," the man said in that deep, rumbling voice of his.

"Oh, Josh hasn't?" Tony cracked.

"No, he likes you all right. Josh just doesn't let people in as easy as Chris does. You must have really impressed Chris at school- I've never seen him take to anyone quite like this."

"It's just 'cause he's finally met somebody who's a ladies' man like he is," Tony said boastfully.

The Sergeant Major laughed. "Yes, you have some similar interests. But Chris can go a little far trying to impress people he likes. Don't let it bother you. But if that leadfoot of his comes back you let me know; I'm tired of having the MPs or the local police come bother me about that Camaro of his."

Tony considered and rejected telling about the other night. Hearing that it might just have been Chris trying to act up and impress his new friend helped ease Tony's mind about it a lot. Besides, while Sergeant Major seemed like a good man, Tony didn't want to get Chris in trouble.

"He's been doing fine. Ran over a few Navy guys on the way back the other night, though."

"That's fine, son. Speedbumps are all the Navy is good for here at Camp Lejeune."

 **XX**

After a long and extremely challenging (and fun) day at the gym, Chris and Tony rented a hotel room in town. Tony found himself playing along with the whole "junior enlisted Marine" story again, but if it meant having a fun evening, Tony could've cared less. He and Chris had a lot of fun teasing each other from their respective beds, and they were close enough that at one point, while each of the girls were 'busy' and the two boys were lying on their backs, they actually exchanged a high-five.

The whole evening passed much too quickly, and Tony complained like a little kid when Chris announced they had to leave and head back to the base. Chris patiently let Tony gripe, and ultimately the two boys put their clothes back on and left.

This isn't so bad, Tony thought, happily daydreaming in the passenger bucket seat as Chris drove back to Camp Lejeune. I think sports, the bedroom, and the gym have gotta be the three greatest things in the world. You won't find me going to any more fucking Civil War reenactments, that's for sure. And look, Chris is even driving like he's sane. He's not so bad. You can do this, man. Things will work out just fine.

At the gate, as the MP checked Chris' military dependent ID, Tony thought of something, a line from one of this year's best movies and one of Tony's all-time favorites.

"Hey, man," Tony said, "what if your dad or your brother checks the odometer on this car?"

"They don't," Chris said, taking his ID back and giving a casual wave to the MP.

"But what if they started to?" Tony asked.

"Oh, that's easy," Chris said with a grin. "We'll drive home backwards."

"Yes!" Tony shouted. He pummeled Chris' right shoulder exultantly, yelling excitedly. "Yes! Yes! This is awesome, man!"

"Oh, you just figured it out?" Chris laughed. "What has gotten into you?"

"You saw Ferris Bueller's Day Off!"

"Yeah, man, I saw it, so what?"

"It is the best fuckin' movie of 1986, that's what!"

"Okay, okay, it is, I agree, lemme drive, will you?"

Tony kept messing with Chris, though, and Chris started trying to find him off with one hand, with the end result that they blew a stop sign about a mile or two into the base. And, as if it was fate itself taking a crap on Tony's great evening, a military police car jumped out from hiding with its lights on.

"Shit," Tony said.

"Yellow flag," Chris said. "I was just about to open her up, too."

Chris brought the Camaro to a stop on the side of the road, and two Marines in camouflage fatigues walked up on either side of the car. The boys rolled down the windows and stayed put as the MPs ran their flashlights over the car and its occupants.

Oh, man, I hope Chris doesn't fuck up and show them that fake ID. Oh, please, man, don't grab that one if you have it. They'll figure out there's no Marine by that name on this base and then-

"What's the hurry this time of the night?" the MP at the driver's side asked.

"Just trying to beat the curfew home, Lieutenant," Chris replied.

"Yeah? You almost made it," the MP officer replied.

"What were you kids doing off-base?" a Marine corporal on Tony's right asked.

"Well, we-"

"Never mind, I don't care."

Chris cleared his throat. "Uh, sir, are you the Lieutenant Scott that was in Joshua Marshall's class at Remington Military Academy? Class of '78?"

"What's it to you, hotshot?"

"I'm his brother. I didn't know you were on base with him now, sir." He displayed his ID. "It's really me. Seriously."

The lieutenant aimed his flashlight right at Tony, who winced and put up a hand.

"That kid," Scott said, "he's got the kinda face I just wanna punch. You know that, Corporal?"

"I was just thinkin' that about the ginger there, sir," the Corporal replied.

"Alright," the officer said. "Tell you guys what. Chris, if your stupid-lookin' friend can tell me why I became a Marine, I won't run you in for resisting arrest."

"Uh-"

"That's strike one."

"The dress blues?"

"That's two."

"You were bored?"

"Buddy, you just struck out. Outta the vehicle; you're under arrest."

Before Tony could respond, Chris suddenly shouted, "Goddamn it, Quentin, this was supposed to be a fuckin' joke! Why the hell do you MP's have to fuckin' ruin everybody's fun?!"

The two MP's looked at Chris in surprise, then cracked up laughing. The lieutenant said, "Chris, you know I'm just fuckin' with you. I only got to see your brother today. I pulled him over for speeding, too. Gave him a pass because of that sweet Caddy of his. He doesn't deserve that car, you know that?"

"You MP's never know when to quit."

"It's not in our nature. Get outta here, Chris, and take your buddy with you. Make sure you stop at the Stop signs, it's what they're there for."

"Really?"

"Really. Go on, get lost. Don't make any of my boys run you in."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Yeah, yeah, what?"

"Yeah, yeah, _sir_."

"There you go, man."

 **XX**

Back at the house, Chris invited Tony to stay up for a while in his room. They talked about the remainder of what the basketball team had to do for the fall, and the upcoming games of the spring. Tony was looking forward to all that. He was also looking forward to taking on Honor Corps with an ally at his side. All they had to do was investigate, get some dirt on those guys somehow. With enough ammo, they could convince Honor Corps to back off. Maybe, just maybe, Chris and Tony could finish Honor Corps for good. Coach Tanner had hopes of doing just that.

"You really think we can do this?" Tony asked finally.

"Do what?"

"The whole thing. Take on Honor Corps. Change the school."

"Of course."

"Well, what about your brother?"

"What about him?"

"Will he help us?"

"He's not gonna be too interested. He's got his mind elsewhere. He doesn't believe they exist, anyway."

"Can I ask him about it?"

"It's not gonna cost me anything if you do. When we get ready to head to the airport tomorrow, you ask him then. He'll tell you the same thing he's told me."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Just ask him yourself, if you want."

"Okay." Tony was silent for a while. "Chris, when did you lose your virginity?"

Chris laughed. "What in the fuck? What's that got to do with anything?"

"I'm just curious. I mean, I just fucked a girl in plain sight of you. Just tell me."

"Okay. I was twelve. My first year at RMA. You should've seen me the next summer, man. I started coming out of my shell, eventually. And when I did- well, that's what set me on the path to become the muscular love machine you see before you today."

"So how'd it happen?"

"This real cute girl who worked at the pool took me into the locker room at the end of the day. I was a little kid. I had no idea what I was doing. I learned."

"Doesn't sound like you had that much fun, though."

Chris shrugged. "I guess it just wasn't that fun, because… because… I was new. I hadn't been done it before. To be honest I didn't like it. But later… later, I did."

"Well, I for one am glad you decided you liked to fu-"

Chris whacked him on the shoulder. "Oh, kiss my ass, DiNozzo! You know I was just nervous, that's all! By the time I turned fourteen I was totally over that; you take my word on it."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Shit."

The two boys looked at each other and started laughing. They giggled like a couple of little kids for a while, and Tony had to wipe away tears at one point.

"You're not so bad, DiNozzo," Chris sighed. "But next time I want my own room. I see you naked enough just in the locker room."

"Seriously, how fun was doing that high-five? Be honest."

"Oh, that was fun, my man. But I'm still taking my own room next time."

"Good. I don't want to embarrass you again if I can help it."

"Tony, you got no chance, man."

"Thanks for making this break so much fun. I'm actually kinda glad my Dad didn't pick me up."

"No problem, Tony. It's all good, man."

XX

Tony wound up falling asleep in Chris' room, and Josh and Chris somehow got the brown-haired teen into the hallway bathroom's bathtub without even waking him up. Tony slept soundly right up to the moment the water was turned on.

"HEY!" Tony shouted, suddenly wide awake. He spluttered and coughed, cursed as he realized he still had his underwear on, and that it was rapidly getting soaked. "What the hell's going on?!"

"Tony," Chris said, "you gotta learn to wake up sooner, man!"

"This was too easy, dear brother," Josh added, laughing. "Hey, Tony."

"Fuck you!"

"Wash up, sweetie, and then pack your shit and get downstairs! Food's on me, but Dad wants no excuses on you and Chris getting back to school on time!"

"Goddamn it!"

"Speak with respect when you speak of the Lord!" Josh barked at him.

"I'll make something of you yet, DiNozzo!" Chris thundered.

"Goddamn it, leave that boy alone and give him some fuckin' privacy!" the Sergeant Major bellowed from his room. "I get enough time to come back here and take a friggin' nap, and I gotta listen to the damn monkey house!"

"I love you, Dad!" Josh and Chris shouted.

"I love you too, boys!" the Sergeant Major shouted back. "Now leave DiNozzo the hell alone so he can take a friggin' shower!"

The Marshall boys got Tony's Class A uniform and hung it up on one of the towel rack, and set the shoes and dress socks beneath it. They then closed the door and let Tony have his shower in peace. Tony kept shaking his head, muttering to himself, "These guys are crazy. This whole _family_ is crazy."

 **XX**

An hour later, Tony was loading his things into the Cadillac's trunk when he heard Chris let out a yelp. He turned just in time to see the whole thing as Josh picked Chris up, tossed him into the cavernous trunk and closed the lid.

"Let me out!" Chris yelled, pounding on the inside of the trunk lid. "Let me out of here!"

"Say the password!" Josh said, laughing so hard he could barely stand.

"I don't know any fucking password!"

"Ask your friend!"

"Tony, what's the fucking password?"

"I don't know what the fucking password is, man!" Tony replied, also laughing.

"I hate you both!"

"Chris, man, I told you there'd be consequences if you didn't get Tony up on time this morning!"

"I did!"

"No, we both woke him up ten minutes late!"

"You let me out of here, Josh, I swear I'll get you for this! I'll get you! Let me out!"

Josh took his keys and unlocked the trunk, and Chris promptly sprang out and tackled his brother. The two wrestled good-naturedly for a minute or so before Sergeant Major Marshall came out front and yelled at Chris to come get the rest of your stuff, I don't have all day here.

"You got payback coming," Chris said, glowering at his brother.

"I love you, little brother."

"Yeah, man," Chris grumbled. "All right. I'll see you guys in a minute."

 **XX**

As Chris went back inside the house, Tony turned to Josh.

"Has Chris ever mentioned Honor Corps to you?"

Josh had been eying himself in the Cadillac's driver's side mirror; he looked sharply at Tony and frowned.

"What?"

"Honor Corps. Secret group at RMA?"

"There's no such group."

"I think there is. Chris thinks so, too."

Josh straightened up and looked speculatively at Tony for several moments.

"Tony, I'm gonna tell you something. When I went to Remington, back before the beginning of time-"

"Back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth?"

Josh cracked a smile. "That's right, DiNozzo. Well, they used to say that the Corps sleeps. The TACs sleep. But Honor Corps, they don't ever sleep. The stories said they were the elite defenders of the school, a brotherhood forged to purge Remington of anyone who crossed the Academy in thought, word, or deed. I even heard one guy swear they started back in the 1940s somewhere, and over time their mission evolved, went from just defending the school to defending America. Whatever it takes. Victory at any cost. _Fidelis ad Mortem_ \- faithful unto death. That's the Honor Corps motto, or so the rumors said. And you know what? It's all hogwash. It's bullshit. I graduated valedictorian in the Class of 1978, I met every alleged criterion I've ever heard of. Patriotism, athletic ability, loyalty to the school, physical fitness, leadership, and nobody contacted me. No masked gang led me away into the dark one night for initiation. I searched for years, wasted time like you're doing on a wild goose chase, and nothing ever happened."

"Someone drew 'HC' on my locker, on my uniform, and painted it on my door. Right after that prank I did with the paint."

Josh shrugged. "So what? It's a barracks legend, Tony, that's all it is. That little stunt of yours just gave somebody a great chance to scare you. I personally know guys who used to shit like that to scare new boys."

Tony hesitated. "Josh, I don't think someone's just trying to scare me. It felt like they were sending a message."

The red-haired young man sighed. "Oh, I think I know what's going on. Chris thinks he's gonna go running off on some idealistic crusade, doesn't he?"

"Won't you at least help us if we prove it to you somehow?" Tony asked. "Chris was saying we might be able to-"

Josh cut him off. "Tony, you have _enough_ to worry about all by yourself. Don't go looking for ghosts in the dark. Get on the right path, accept a little discipline in your life. Graduate. You've got enough work cut out for you just with that."

"You really don't believe Honor Corps exists?"

"Do you believe Hell exists, Tony?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know either, Tony, but I sure as hell don't wanna _go_ there, you know what I mean?"

"But- that couldn't even be a problem unless Honor Corps really-"

"No more antics, Tony. No more of that shit you pulled when you first showed up at RMA. No one can ever amount to a _thing_ in life unless they have a code, and there's one you can live by at Remington. _Verum, Animus, Officium_. And then there's that statue: _Huc venite iuvenes ut exeatis viri_." I want you to go look at that statue sometime after you get back. You go there and you think about this. The day's coming, Tony, when you're not only gonna have to find a code to live by, but also grow up and become a man. Remington can make you a man if you just take advantage of what the school offers. Question is, what kind of man do you want to be?"

 **XX**

* * *

 **A/N: 2-3-2019.**

 **First chapter of this story for 2019!**

 **I was inspired by Jenny wrens, whose rapid pace of updating her story lately has been nothing short of incredible. I hadn't updated "The Cadet" since November 2018, and I figured, better do something about that. This chapter totals at about 4,787 words, considerably shorter than most all the others in Chapters 1-7. But that's all right. Better at least that I got the story moving again. I hope to update it again much sooner than the three-month gap between Chapter 7 and Chapter 8.**

 **I would like to say a special word of thanks to VG LittleBear, whose steadfast praise and support was and is an inspiration to me. VG LittleBear's reviews were a great source of encouragement and played no small role in my decision to become further involved in writing for NCIS. VG LittleBear, thank you very much for all your PMs and reviews. They are appreciated.**

 **And the same to Jenny wrens, an excellent writer who I greatly enjoy interacting with on here. Josh Marshall, a Marine captain (O-3) in 1986, has now become a part of "Gibbs' Test", set in 2005, where Josh is a brigadier general (O-7). Josh's powerful drive, personal ambition, courage and nerve have made him stand out since the beginning of his life, and enabled him to survive circumstances others might have found overwhelming. He is an extremely tough and brave individual, and realizing that about him has led me to planning for him to have a larger role than he was originally intended for in this story.**

 **The 1983 film adaptation of "The Lords of Discipline" is referenced in this chapter.**

 **Tony will be returning to Remington Military Academy soon, and Honor Corps will be waiting. Tony, Chris, and Honor Corps itself have gotten themselves into a fairly complex situation by now- to say the least.**

 **All reviews are welcome.**


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